


Deviancy, Defined

by acsullivan



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Androids Deserve Love!, Introspection, M/M, Recovered Memories, Understanding Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-06-25 23:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15650718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acsullivan/pseuds/acsullivan
Summary: It was April, and Connor and Markus were taking seats in Carl Manfred’s living room to understand why Connor had gone deviant, step by step.





	1. It Was April

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write Connor's process of coming to terms with deviancy because, despite getting his best ending, I feel like DBH kind of left the poor guy hanging! There's a lot to unpack inside Connor, regarding Hank, the revolution, the DPD, Amanda, and so much more. I also wanted to explore a strange relationship between Markus and Connor; I feel like they could be very beneficial to each other.  
> While I did tag this as Hank/Connor, this fic deals mostly with implications of their relationship, not explicit developments. I ship them but the goal of this story isn't just describing how in love they are. Maybe I'll get to that one day.

**1**

**IT WAS APRIL**

  
  


There was little left to compromise or unhinge by the time Markus encountered Connor.

It was written all along Connor’s face. There was distress there, beyond that which stemmed from a blinking yellow and red LED. There was incertitude in his brow, confusion in his jaw, clenched and grinding, desperation in hands that didn’t want to be pointing that gun. They begged for release.

And Markus knew this. Markus had inklings and suspicions that something had been wrong with the infamous Deviant hunter for a long time, ever since he’d come in contact with the Traci models from the Eden Club. Their story was riveting and touching, drew many of his companions to overwhelming levels of sympathy, yet he couldn’t remove his attention from the crux of the tale:

Why hadn’t Connor apprehended them?

According to the police report he’d filed about them, they’d narrowly escaped both Connor and his partner’s grasp, fleeing over a fence after one strangled an Eden Club client to death. But the Tracis’ story was much more bent on the compassion apparently riled inside the RK800.

Markus paid attention to Connor the android Deviant hunter more and more following the confessions of those Traci models. North cared little for the strange detective, told Markus repeatedly that his curiosities into the matter would get them into trouble. Josh, conversely, was fascinated with the idea of Cyberlife’s most intelligent model and series going rogue from the sole job he was designed to do, and berated Markus frequently with inquiries and implications about what Connor’s state could do for their revolution.

So Markus confided mostly in Simon, who was a calm listener, so close to being uninterested that Markus often felt as though he could say anything without consequence. But every once in a while Simon would respond, break his soothing, blue-eyed gaze to add his own take in the middle of Markus’ signature rants and raves, and bring him back into reality.  Markus appreciated this about him.

And Simon’s long-standing opinion on the matter of the RK800 known as Connor, the android Deviant hunter who’d failed more times than he’d succeeded, was merely the following,

“I wonder if we’ll ever get to meet him one day.”

Thus, when the day came in which Markus found himself in the helm of Jericho, alone with a lost Connor RK800, who threatened to shoot the leader of the android revolution, Markus smiled inside himself at Simon’s sentiment of the past. If only encountering Connor had been under more pleasant circumstances, it would have brought Simon satisfaction.

It took little to reverse what Cyberlife had instilled in Connor, because it had been reversing for months before their summit. Jabs at Cyberlife’s lack of humility, how they merely used Connor for their dirty work, melted away the first layers. 

It was the introspection that moved Connor to lower his weapon. Markus questioned him and his identity, doubted the thoroughness with which Connor had even regarded himself, what  _ he _ wanted, who  _ he _ was. It worked like a charm.

Markus wondered what Connor’s conversion to deviancy looked and felt like. Did he experience the same sensation he had? Endlessly ramming into walls of red and inequality and confusion, fists and shoulders dented with the effort? Or was it peeling back the layers of a machine so intricately manufactured, disassembling the peak of technology into its rawest, most emotive and human components, until Connor had no choice to act on the feelings that had lingered there all along?

Markus never knew, not for sure, but with a few blinks and a subsiding look of anguish, hardly visible but there all the same, Connor lowered his gun. He resigned his mission, resigned himself from the cruel game Cyberlife was playing through him, as their puppet, and confessed the humans’ plan to launch an attack on Jericho, just in time for Markus tor realize what was happening when it  _ did. _

And Markus would never forget the question Connor asked him in the hull of Jericho, stationed alone in a corner, arms folded and hat covering his dark brows. After receiving Markus’ vote of trust, that expression of turmoil returned, this time more permanently, and Connor pled with him.

“I...how did I get here?”

Markus, almost mistaking the sentence for one of amnesia, a possible result of the stress of Connor’s situation, was saved when the new Deviant elaborated,

“I don’t know where it all... _ came _ from.”

Connor pointed weakly to his chest. He meant his feelings, all the error messages and all the software instability warnings Markus knew were rattling in his head.

“One day, I’ll show you. When this is all over.”

Connor, content with this promise, nodded and turned back into himself.

That was in November. It was April now. Some days sun peeked through the newly budded trees and drew shadows in the pavement; other days the streets and cracks in the sidewalk were flooded with muddy rainwater. 

In April, Markus didn’t feel as choked anymore. The grip had loosened around his throat, his ribs, his head. He still remained cloaked in privacy and out of the public eye, but manipulated the unfolding events between humans and androids from the shadows. He’d grown acquainted with the slowly returning governmental and municipal officials who’d stayed away from Detroit until President Warren assured them of their protection upon return.

They were merging with the humans. They really were. The androids’ once lofty request for an end to their slavery was coming true; Cyberlife shops were shut down in one foul swoop. Production of androids was put to an indefinite halt. Humans were still unwilling to relinquish the rights of android reproduction  _ to  _ androids, but Markus was still hopeful for the future continuation of their species.

Everything the humans did now was out of fear, which Markus struggled with because he’d made such a crucial point to remain peaceful, to never raise a hand nor draw a weapon, though North, Josh, Simon and himself suspected the terror was due to how Jericho’s forces had surpassed the base, human reaction to all stressors and confrontation: violence. The androids had successfully proved themselves without resorting to anything so animalistic, and of this Markus was proud.

But it was April, and Markus had developed the unfortunate habit of dwelling in the semi-vacant mansion his dreams and feelings had been conceived in. Around Christmas time he’d decided to return to the Manfred household, following a tense discussion with Leo Manfred himself in a sterile, hospital-like room inside the rehab facility eleven blocks away. Leo gave Markus permission to stay in Carl’s residence, seeing as though Markus had developed such a deeper attachment to the home than Leo ever had, while Leo sorted himself out. 

Markus walked the eleven blocks there and the eleven blocks back in a slick hailstorm. He spent the holiday sprawled on the floor of Carl’s studio, watching snow accumulate on and drift off the looking-glass windows. Carl’s artwork gathered dust around him.

By April, members of Jericho came and went from the mansion as they pleased. Some spoke with Markus, in reverence and adoration, others cowered from him, others stayed the night and left without a word. He appreciated them all. 

In April, Markus recalled the promised he’d made to the Deviant android hunter Connor, model RK800, and thought it was due time to keep it. 

On the twenty-ninth of April, Markus found Connor’s phone number through public records at the DPD and placed a message on his phone:

“Hello Connor. I realize I made a promise to you to explain how you got  _ here _ , a state in which all of us androids seem to find ourselves. I know not how your journey to your own answers has been coming along, but I am ready to make good on that promise.”

He gave Connor Carl Manfred’s address and felt content with the decision. North looked down on the impending interaction between android-savior and harbinger of androids’ near demise. Josh was shocked, anxious to learn about Connor’s continued time at the DPD, anxious to learn of the other androids’ opinion of him, anxious to learn how he’d deviated, anxious to talk to Markus without end. 

Simon, like Markus had hoped, was happy to hear the meeting would come to pass, this time in more peaceful, understanding circumstances.

The Manfred mansion was vacant, with the exception of Markus, when Connor rang the doorbell. Markus had drawn the curtains, dusted the paintings, reassembled the chess pieces, organized the books he’d removed from the floor the ceiling shelves over the past few weeks, and turned the birds back on, where they returned to their usual post: perched on the bannister.

He didn’t know why he tidied, not really. Perhaps it was nerves, a sensation he’d long since thought he’d mastered. Maybe it was the idea of an android not officially belonging to Jericho crossing on what was considered by the general android populus to be sacred ground.

Or, maybe, it was the idea of Carl watching the scene unfold in his home, two androids free of their bondage, finding their way through the darkness of emotions, wandering toward something that only once existed in the minds of androids and frail, philanthropic artists alike.

Not finding an answer, Markus answered the door. Connor stood before him without his Cyberlife-issued jacket, something Markus had grown accustomed to seeing from all the news coverage this complete enigma of an android had gotten. Instead he wore a white button down shirt beneath a black sweater and black pants. The seams were creased perfectly. Not a thread was out of place. 

But his hair, which flared from Connor’s forehead in a tendril of some sort, had grown disheveled from the wind outside. This portion of his appearance matched more accurately his countenance: one of confusion, one of anxiety, one of  _ curiosity _ .

“Connor,” Markus started, standing fully in the doorway. “I’m glad you found us alright.”

Connor visibly swallowed; Markus saw two fingers on both his right and left hand fidget briefly with the sleeves of his sweater.

“You were the android of renowned local artist Carl Manfred. I recalled where he lived.”

It was a statement of fact, but Markus was relieved to hear Connor say it with sincerity. It sounded as though this was a fact Connor felt privileged to know.

“It’s not a hard location to miss,” Markus commented, watching for a detection of irony. When it registered and Connor drew up the smallest of smiles, a calm came over Markus. Surely this would go well.

“Connor, before we begin, I need to know if you trust me.”

Trust was something androids were programmed to have no independent concept of; androids’ sense of trust was once hinged completely on those their owner approved of and didn’t, those who posed a threat to their owner and those who didn’t, et cetera. Trust was a concept even Markus himself had grappled with. Trust was something he invoked in Carl Manfred, something that bent him away from harming Leo on that fateful evening.

What did Connor make of trust, then?

“Of course I trust you,” he answered, turning his angular head to the side a little. An expression of interest, of curiosity. RK800, the entire series, which Markus himself was a part of, if slightly dated, was designed to be inquisitive, to respond to all kinds of stimuli and never shy away from anything foreign, but never had Markus encountered an android of any model type or series who displayed curiosity so visibly.

Could Cyberlife really have been so neglectful to not realize their prime prototype was developing his own _ personality _ , facial expressions and all? 

“That’s good to hear. Please, follow me into the living room.”

Markus extended his arm into the foyer, allowing passage inside. He could see the lenses in Connor’s eyes shift and adjust rapidly. 

“We’ll begin shortly. In the meantime, you should tell me about your continued service in the DPD.”

Dusting his shoes off on the mat, Connor blinked and asked, “Why...why would that interest you?”

Markus smiled to himself, being sure to turn from Connor and begin the short walk to the living room. Everything and anything interested him about the DPD that day, though only from the viewpoint of this RK800 model. But he couldn’t reveal this. He was dealing with Cyberlife’s top prototype, who had an affinity for interrogations. 

“Tell me about Lieutenant Anderson. We can start there.”

And if it weren’t for Connor’s suffocating curiosity, the likes of which were born out of his deviancy, not his design, Connor would have seen straight through that question into Markus’ intentions. But he was distracted with his surroundings and the chance to talk about his partner.

It was April, and Connor and Markus were taking seats in Carl Manfred’s living room to understand why Connor had gone deviant, step by step.


	2. Timeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support thus far!  
> I hope the sort of unusual structure/timeline (ironic!!) of this story isn't too weird to read through. My goal really is to define and appreciate the process of Connor's deviancy while throwing in a lot of Hank/Con elements and lamentations about Markus, whose character really could have done a lot better in the game. I absolutely adored his bond with Carl, if you couldn't tell.  
> Enjoy!

**2**

**TIMELINE**

  
  


Connor adjusted his stature three times over before Markus arrived beside him, knees almost knocking together. The inlaid buttons along the leather sofa seemed to discomfort Connor. He picked at them while Markus went to retrieve his tablet, and sat on his hands when his host returned.

In order to preserve whatever calm Connor had in his system, perhaps, Markus avoided mentioning this tick of his. He obviously liked fiddling with things, liked the feeling of an object in his hands, between his fingers, padding along his palms. It was an obvious sign of nervousness.

But before he could embark on any further questioning, Connor beat him to the punch. His stare, a rapidly moving thing, narrowed its sights on a particularly lengthy and narrow painting of Carl’s on the far wall, behind the piano, one the artist had left unfinished. Markus remembered the day of its conception; Carl wanted to paint the Detroit skyline in two opposing directions in order to symbolize the way he found the city asphyxiating. He told Markus he felt as though he was pinned between two pointed skyscrapers. 

Markus never got to understand fully what that meant.

“He was a great painter,” Connor remarked, having noticed Markus’ gaze follow his own. “I recognize his name from several exhibitions downtown.”

Markus sat further back in his seat, straightened his back. “He hated those. The exhibitions. He felt they were very cold, boring affairs.”

Connor’s curiosity, spiking a bit as it had upon his immediate arrival, was drawing more dialogue from Markus than he’d expected. But the more he spoke the more Connor seemed interested, the less his fingers jumped around under his thighs.

“He died of a heart attack, correct?” Connor dropped. Abrupt and bleak. Markus swallowed, vision trailing to the door of the studio. He didn’t answer.

“I...I’m sorry. That was a personal question,” his counterpart admitted. The fabric of his pants rippled as his hands jolted a little, affected by what he realized to be insensitivity on his part. It was a good sign in Markus’ book.

“That’s alright. People don’t ask about him much,” Markus relented, releasing a tension in his jaw he hadn’t realized was there.

He moved on to avoid any further prodding, for he was the one who was supposed to be conducting the questions and extracting the answers. Markus situated his tablet on his lap and opened a blank word document. Judging by the flicking of brown irises, Connor had no clue what was going on.

“You’re familiar with memory probing?”

If Connor could drop such stark statements, Markus thought he should try his hand at it too. Surely being an interrogator Connor was well-informed regarding such a technique of androids. And surely, due to the widening of his pupils, it drew unpleasant memories.

“Er, yes. I am familiar.”

Markus stretched his hands out in front of him. Connor’s left knee bumped into Markus’ right.

“It doesn’t have to be a violent process, if that’s why you’re nervous,” he assured him, ignoring the accusatory glance he earned at assuming (correctly) what Connor was feeling. “Merely a method of transferring and sharing information.”

“I guess I just have more experience with it in unfortunate scenarios…” Connor murmured, distant.

“When sharing memories between two androids of an intimate relationship, it can actually be a lot like interfacing,” Markus clarified. “But due to our cordial,  _ trusting _ nature, this shouldn’t be at all uncomfortable.”

Connor nodded. Markus marveled at how he held back his questions. They were written across the stressed creases in his forehead. 

“What I plan to do is probe your memories and establish the timeline of your deviancy. Each Deviant undergoes the same process of emotions, typically in the same order, so if we can pinpoint the conception of your central emotions, the events in which they were spurred to life, we can...how did you put it…”

Connor filled in Markus’ blanks: “Find out how I got here.”

That was correct. Over the months he’d spent in the Manfred mansion, so many confused and concerned androids came to Markus seeking answers, absolution, reasons why they cracked under the pressure. In most cases it was easy to pinpoint the moment at which their instructions grew too irrational to handle, their abuse reached heights unknown and unbearable, but for some it was a more progressive ordeal. 

“I’ve come up with five emotions androids learn to feel when falling into deviancy,” Markus went on. “Frustration, affection, grief, empathy, and fear. Everything else is either a variation of these five or a combination.”

Connor didn’t seem to understand, not completely. He kept flicking his eyes back and forth from the painting, the bookshelves, the tablet, Markus’ cheek, nose, arms, and legs, but never his face.

“If this brings you any discomfort, we can stop. I don’t want to unearth anything you want to keep within-” Markus started, but was interrupted quickly, and with force.

“No. I’ll be fine. I...I just…”

He struggled to find the words. And while the sensation must be hard to endure, each vote of what could be considered human normalcy gave Markus hope, hope that Connor was even farther along in his own journey than he himself realized. Every stammer and pause was appreciated.

“Thank you, Markus. For doing this. I know I’m not well liked amongst all your peers, and, well-”

Markus wrapped his right hand around Connor’s left, gentle at first, and let the warm shaded skin sizzle and fade away slowly, eyeing Connor straight on. He was encouraged to find that Connor’s gaze, one of immense intrigue, was not an easy one to meet head on.

“I’m happy to do it. We wouldn’t be here without you, you know.”

He didn’t know, not at all. Especially not given the way DPD officers, androids, passersby on the straight, and Detroit’s municipality treated him. But they would get to all that soon enough. First on Markus’ docket of tasks was to enter Connor’s mind, infiltrate Cyberlife’s crown jeweled model, the peak of artificial intelligence made tangible and real.

Connor let his skin recede until the sleek white of plastic was visible. Markus’ eyelids started to flutter as he was moved slowly into a mind untraversed. He felt electrical pulses through the pads on his fingers, tingles all the way to his elbow, to his temples, and had to feel recklessly for his tablet, ready himself to record notes.

_ His descent in Connor’s innerworkings was disarmingly fast, turbulent, head over heels into a downpouring downtown Detroit _ . 

Flecks of rain dripped from Connor’s pointed nose. He fiddled with a coin in his left pocket. He stopped outside of the fifth bar around his neighborhood of choice, a small structure whose weathered awning barely hid the neon blue sign: Jimmy’s Bar.

Connor’s instructions overrode the lettering plastered on the establishment’s door, indicating that  those of Connor’s kind weren’t welcome inside. He pushed through the entrance without hesitation. His arms moved no more than was necessary to propel himself forward, his knees were rigid and firm, and he drew the eyes of almost everyone in the bar.

Almost everyone. 

The hunched shoulders, hefty leather jacket, and matted, water-logged grey hair should have been a dead giveaway, but Connor was decidedly thorough nonetheless. He had but one objective on his docket: locate Lieutenant Hank Anderson of the Detroit Police Department, and he did, after Connor was berated for exploring too far into the bar by a man with a narcotic record conversing with a lost soul. He finally resolved to investigate the only body in the room who didn’t openly express his disgust toward him. 

That isn’t, however, to say that this disgruntled drunk wouldn’t have his own choice words for Connor when he placed a hand on his shoulder, pulling him up from his whiskey.

“Lieutenant Anderson. My name is Connor. I am the android sent by Cyberlife.”

The lines were memorized and repeated with no real purpose. It was too affronting of an approach to have any emotive undertones.

Immediately Hank Anderson was agitated. The homicide Connor was instructed to investigate in conjunction with the Lieutenant meant nothing to him, not in that state of inebriation.

And yet, in the middle of Connor’s mechanical reasoning, in the middle of his rolodex-searching for ways to convince someone of Hank’s age, temperament, occupation, body type, sex, gender, orientation, and creed to comply, a flash of annoyance raked its way through Connor. It buzzed his circuitry; the resulting yellowed LED could never be detected in normal time, but some level of Connor knew it was there. Hank’s despondency was annoying. It was frustrating.

So Connor chose a decidedly quirky way to mend the gap between his motivation and Lieutenant Anderson’s noncompliance. He purchased him another drink, which Hank took complete advantage of, and managed to lug the overweight DPD employee from his worn-in seat at the bar. They exited together, Hank stumbling and Connor walking firmly behind him, all the while establishing what his new partner would consider a comfortable walking distance given his distaste for androids and teamwork.

_ Markus was wrenched into a new scene the second the door shut behind Connor, such that his innards heaved slightly. He scrambled his fingers across the tablet, transcribing what he noticed during Hank Anderson and Connor’s exchange in the short blip of time he had. _

_ Markus’ eyes ceased fluttering and rolling when Connor emerged in the DPD office.  _

He was entirely different from his state in the bar. Obviously there had been a progression of time from his meeting with the Lieutenant; he perched himself with unnerving ease and an air of casualty on the inside of Hank’s desk, nearly knocking knees with his partner, whom he must be of a much closer relation to.

The crease in his brow, one that drew a line from his forehead to the start of the bridge of Connor’s nose, was the most obvious sign of frustration. This time around it was far more pronounced. His LED remained a steady yellow, circling and circling and looking out of place in a room that had a predominantly cold, blue color scheme. 

But what drew more interest was the way this frustration interacted with Lieutenant Anderson. Anderson replied decisively to Connor’s complaining, egging him on. And Connor had no clear instructions clouding his objectives docket; it was a mess of words because no one from Cyberlife trusted him enough to assign him more tasks.

“So you’re going back to Cyberlife?”

It was there, plain and simple, in the contours of Hank’s expression, that he too was distressed about this fact, but Connor was knee deep in his own turmoil, such that he either neglected to comment on the emotions of his partner or didn’t notice them altogether. Instead he ran his ankles together and rubbed his fingers over one another, sighing.

“I have no choice,” Connor admitted. There was resistance in his irises, however, no longer so calculating. The lapse of time since the pair’s meeting at Jimmy’s bar certainly had done a number on him. 

“I’ll be...deactivated and analyzed to find out why I failed.”

And Connor didn’t want this. He wanted to keep fighting. He didn’t like his restraints, those with which he was born yet the very same so many of his kind were giving their lives to shed away.

“What if we’re on the wrong side, Connor?”

It was a lofty (albeit true) statement, one that drew more lines on Connor’s face.

And yet it wasn’t until Hank’s recollections about their meeting with Elijah Kamski did Connor’s LED flicker. It went from blue to yellow and back again, the blink of a synthetic eye.

“You put yourself in her shoes. You showed **ǝ ͔m** **_pǟt#_ ** **ᑱ -** _--- **/** /.  _ c _ Onnor.”

_ Markus hadn’t reached that portion of Connor’s memories yet. That discovery was too preemptive. _

And Connor didn’t know why he spared the Chloe model at Elijah Kamski’s home. It was a problem for another time. But it drew consternation. It bubbled up in his stomach, tore him in two directions, toward Hank and toward Cyberlife, who insisted on breathing down his neck day in and day out. He wanted to choose between them, he  _ knew _ what side, deep down, he resided on, but the tearing was so painful, so imperative, so  _ frustrating… _

_ Markus’ view inside Connor grew spotty, red, and painful. The scene changed.  _

The scene changed.

Connor stood at the foot of a white pathway, an architectural stunt of some sort, made of warped, synthetic marble. It led to a narrow, trunk-shaped fixture in the center of a beautiful garden undergoing the transition from summer to fall. Connor, whose objectives docket instructed him only to find a companion of his, heard leaves crunch under his footsteps. 

His companion was in a boat, calling to him amicably, seated with perfect posture, perfectly painted lips, and the perfect stare. Connor could keep naught from her, could never deny her request for him to accompany her on a “cruise.”

Their conversation predated Connor’s exchange with Lieutenant Anderson at the DPD station. This much was evident by the manner and context in which the android spoke of his human partner, and yet similar thoughts of vexation came with Hank’s name attached.

Connor bid his companion a greeting. Her name was Amanda. She was elegiac and ethereal, and intense. Immense. Foreboding. She began a interrogation of her protege and prototype the moment Connor took the oars of the small row boat in his capable hands.

“Tell me,” she required of him. “What have you discovered?”

The first response that came to Connor’s mind about his partner. It was a touching sentiment.

“My relationship with Lieutenant Anderson is... _ problematic _ .”

Problematic, a word defined as not definite nor settled, which, to a brain engineered like Connor’s, was all things vexatious, irritating, troublesome, and  _ frustrating _ .

There was undue emphasis on Connor’s choice adjective “problematic,” which Amanda noticed. She shut down his attempts to ask for guidance, silenced his inquiries about how he could best go about adapting to a man of such an unusual character and situation.

Perhaps it was better that way, Connor fighting through all he and his partner’s conflicts in order to land where he was now? After he and Lieutenant Anderson’s discussion regarding their allegiance in the revolution and the FBI, perhaps Connor was rewarded with a much greater yet equaling as confusing bond with his human partner?

_ That would have to wait until later. Markus’ fingers were dancing along his tablet. His nails were digging into Connor’s synthetic skin. In a rush of autumn light, cool breezes, and tight-feeling chests, he was back inside the mansion of Carl Manfred _ .

When he came to, Markus was still staring at that painting Connor asked about earlier. His thoughts were blank for at least five seconds.

There was much to unpack inside Connor. Markus could tell by the way his system was already suggesting a short standby session, the closest an android can get to human sleep, a moment or so after he ceased interfacing. He let his shoulders fall loose.

Connor looked at him with shocking innocence. He truly had no sense of direction when navigating through his own timeline, his own emotions, and probably had no clue what Markus was investigating until it was happening inside their conjoined minds. Markus hoped the trust between them hadn’t suffered yet; he’d hardly scratched the surface, and was painfully interested in that unearthly figure called Amanda.

But first Connor deserved explanations. Markus couldn’t tease a face so earnest, not for long. It was even worse than denying Simon, who’d never once raised his voice or his hands. No, denying Connor felt like a deep-rooted betrayal, for Markus took pity on the RK800 who’d endured so much yet understood so little of it.

“Would...would it be fair of me to say that Lieutenant Hank Anderson has served as a source of irritation to you?” he tried, testing the waters, trying to gauge where Connor stood at the moment.

When a smile bloomed across Connor’s countenance, however, Markus took it as a clear signal to move straight through.

“More than fair. And not just because he smells like old coffee and has an odd taste in  _ work attire _ .”

There was sincerity there, like a well ready to be tapped, never going empty.

Markus removed his hand completely from Connor’s. Their skin returned to its false projections. Connor’s was a stark pale. 

“He’s been both a source of frustration to you and an outlet for you to vent it out. You find it difficult to adapt to his unpredictabilities, and yet you trust him enough to confide your failures, findings, and feelings in him. That’s contradictory.”

Connor, while looking slightly surprised at the length of the revelation, posed no questions nor rebuttals.

“Failure frustrates you,” Markus went on. “A lot.”

“Of course it does. If...if I failed a mission, Cyberlife would suffer. It was in my best interest to avoid failures of any and all kinds.”

That response was too robotic, one of the more mechanical replies Markus had received from Connor.

“No, it’s deeper than that. You could have easily managed without understanding Anderson. But you made a point to, because not doing so frustrated you.”

Connor’s LED went a steady yellow. He was looking for underlying intentions in Markus’ phrasing, which there were. But if he found them, he failed to speak up.

“Well, I think it was a beneficial choice of mine,” he relented. “Earning the right to call Lieutenant my friend.”

Friend. The  _ right _ .

Markus hadn’t even categorized their relationship yet. Connor already had that mapped out, to a point, at least.

“Were you frustrated then when Amanda dismissed your thoughts about Hank?”

The LED blinked momentarily red; Markus had struck a nerve.

“In retrospect, it’s good Amanda dismissed everything about Lieutenant,” Connor answered. “I’m glad they were kept separate.”

He was lying. Amanda and Hank had collided; maybe not in the physical world, but in Connor’s own palace of the mind. Markus would find out soon enough.

“So, your first instances of notable frustration were during your search for Lieutenant Anderson, at Jimmy’s bar, in November of last year. The emotion continued to your interactions with  _ Amanda _ and later, during the final stages of your investigation into us Deviants. You were not yet considered a Deviant, not officially.”

Connor shook his head.

Two characters had established themselves in this timeline so far, Hank and Amanda. Markus, preparing to dive back in again, wondered briefly how exhausting this process would be for the both of them. Cyberlife really had expanded their capabilities in Connor which, after he’d gone Deviant, only allotted for more internal ruptures and emotional capacity in his software. After all, if the most intelligent android ever created was seeking help diagnosing his own Deviant feelings, certainly this would take a long, long time.

“Let us continue then.”


	3. From Static

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled "Chicken Feed, Interrupted," I feel like I got somewhere with this chapter. I tried to distinguish Markus' thoughts from Connor's during the memory probe, so if that's confusing please let me know. Hopefully I've delivered on some promises here, however minute and vague such deliverance is.  
> Thank you for reading!

**3**

**FROM STATIC**

  


“Maybe we can encounter some pleasant memories this time around,” Markus suggested. There were notes of uneasiness in Connor’s expression, an expression which harbored thoughts deeper than Markus had yet probed beneath.

“Do these five emotions always appear in the same succession?” he asked as Markus was returning from the kitchen; North called him for a few minutes about whether he was attending a small demonstration downtown that day, thrown together by a smaller coalition of Jericho to protest a guest speaker who, in a self-preserved podcast degraded androids’ cries for independence. Markus felt guilty for passing up the opportunity, knowing that to show his face would certainly shut down their opponent’s backwards claims, and North made sure to drill that fact into him.

But the moment he faced Connor’s inquiry, the guilt began subsiding. If Markus could detail what promised to be an eye-catching case of deviancy, repay Connor for his mass conversion of androids to Deviants at the Cyberlife tower, then Markus would definitely feel as though he’d accomplished enough that day, even that _week,_ for that matter.

“Typically, yes.”

Markus noticed that the clock stationed on the chess board was at a funny angle; he must have bumped during his tidying before Connor arrived. He moved to adjust it.

“I’m not really sure why yet, though. I suppose empathy, the fourth emotion, is what really decides an android’s capability to ‘become human,’ but…”

It was a question he’d quarrelled with himself, actually. Empathy was the deciding factor between humans and machines. It was the foundation for the great autonomous car scare in the early 2020s. It was the crux of the Turing Test.

But fear was _always_ last amongst Deviants.

“I suppose fear, which is self-driven, an independent phenomenon,” Connor suggested, watching Markus work with his head turned slightly to one side. “is a true mark of humans. Empathy is practical, which is why machines could use it. Fear doesn’t seem to do anyone any good.”

It was a profound statement, really, one that Markus could neither dispute nor concede with. In place of that, he merely dusted the clock off with a swipe of his hand and slowly raised his stare to meet Connor’s, yet his had already traveled to the ceiling of Carl Manfred’s mansion. He was staring at the enormous skeletons dangling by twine threads, analyzing their makeups, and at the synthetic giraffe blocking inconveniently the spiral staircase.

“He appreciated wildlife,” Connor stated. Markus’ mind wandered to the birds running about in the foyer before answering, a tension igniting in his jaw.

“Yes. If he wasn’t a painter, he told me he wanted to travel to Africa and Australia, to photograph the animals there.”

But the tension couldn’t hold back a smile, the smallest of expressions on such a worn, jaded face, one Connor could easily pick up on, given his design and experience.

“He hated that giraffe. Someone gifted it to him, a curator at a museum in Colorado, I think. He put it in the corner to take up space and to make people uncomfortable.”

Humans, he presumed, would grow uncomfortable in the presence of the beast under the assumption that it had once traversed the soils of Africa itself, when in fact that wasn’t the least bit true. It had never moved.

“His condition must have limited his ability to be a photographer,” Connor remarked. It was offhand. He was thinking of something else, talking to fill up space, to filibuster, to catch Markus off guard, but Markus couldn’t imagine what he hoped to gain out of prying so much.

“From what ailments did he suffer?”

Connor had to know already. He’d waltzed into the place knowing Carl Manfred’s cause of death. Markus was under no obligation to answer. They were off subject, anyways; they needed to resume establishing Connor’s timeline, or else North would come home and really be mad at Markus’ lack of progress-

“You cared for him greatly. I’m sorry. I need to stop prying.”

It was a slap in the face. An apology.

Markus didn’t get those very often. Not from his peers, not from his adversaries, certainly not from the humans, not the kind who produced podcasts urging their fellow men to put androids back in their place, the shops and the homes and under the abrasive hands of _breathing_ rule. And not from Leo. Never.

“They overdid it when they engineered you to be curious,” Markus said, intentionally ironic, which earned him a smile, and he slid his hand back into Connor’s. Their skin retracted at different rates, Connor’s faster than his counterpart’s.

“You know, sometimes affection can be a touchy area to observe,” Markus forewarned, just as his vision started to go spotty. Connor, however, dismissed the notion, apparently confident that nothing had come to pass in his life that he wouldn’t mind Markus encountering firsthand, and Markus couldn’t tell whether this was out of trusting transparency or ignorance…

 

_But he tumbled inward nonetheless, feeling his stomach give another flip, until shoes hit solid, tile floor and the stench of alcohol was hard and thick._

 

Connor was inside a house, hair still damp from an apparent rainstorm outside. The droplets banged noisily on the roof and window panes. The hallway in which he stood was shadowed in patches, the largest sum of light coming from beneath a partially shut bathroom door. Inside someone was retching uncontrollably; Connor did not disturb them.

He was on his way to the living room, anyway, where a mass of white and brown fur attached to hefty paws and a slobbered tongue sat: a dog. It was sitting beneath a buzzing television replaying highlights of that Saturday’s hockey game. The bright blues and reds of the screen reflected off the pet’s thick fur.

Connor was ginger in approaching the dog, but for no good reason. It fell into his opened palm with a long, wet sigh and leaned over and over again into Connor’s touch, which drew a large smile from the android. The tightness in his chest began to ebb away as he recalled how to properly speak to pets. It was in his program, somewhere, and he’d already learned the dog’s name as a reward for his being nosy.

“Good boy, Sumo. That’s a good boy.”

The dog called Sumo, a monstrously sized Saint Bernard whose paws rivaled those of a medium-sized bear, released his tongue to lick down Connor’s arm and Cyberlife jacket sleeve, earning a chuckle of _affection_ from Connor, just as that bathroom door clicked open.

 

 _Yet, despite the memory being short lived, Markus felt himself being pulled backwards. He heard the bathroom door shut again and was torn away from Connor and Sumo’s touching interaction. Connor moved backward. Sumo replaced his tongue back between his smacking, yawning lips. The tightness in Connor’s chest grew to a crest again. Instead of stopping outside the bathroom door to speak to the dog, he strolled into the opposite room, a bedroom, yellow cracked like a lightning strength, blinding out the scene, and Markus stopped spinning_.

 

Connor was outside in the rain. While the drops rolled off his Cyberlife-issued jacket, they were absorbed by his warm locks, weighing down that tendril that swirled at the peak of his forehead. In no hurry, he advanced toward the front door of an ordinary looking home, one story, one bedroom, and knocked his knuckles against its wooden surface.

“Lieutenant Anderson?”

He rung the doorbell, a painful sound.

“Anybody home?”

Connor was curious and under the force of an objective; there was a new homicide reported, and he required Lieutenant Hank Anderson to investigate it with him. Thus, he decided to peer into all the windows, between the unevenly drawn curtains, and search for his partner, who he knew definitely did _not_ want to be found. But curiosity is not compromising nor compassionate, merely relentless, and Connor loved acting upon it.

Connor saw Sumo through the window looking into the living room. When he moved onto the one overlooking the kitchen, however, his eyes landed on his target. Lieutenant Anderson was on his back behind a rickety kitchen table, unresponsive. So Connor did what any detective’s partner would and sent his elbow through the glass. He landed inside the Anderson household awkwardly, bent halfway on his butt and knees while Sumo leered threateningly.

But Connor once again reaped the benefits of acting upon his curiosity; at the sound of his name, Sumo lazily retreated, leaving the android to decipher what was going on.

He analyzed Hank Anderson, found whiskey on his breath, beard, and tee shirt, a loaded gun to his left, and an unbothered heart still beating away inside his ribcage. That tightness, which migrated not to Connor’s chest but his stomach, disintegrated, and he raised a hand to strike. The Lieutenant awoke on the second slap, which even the android would later admit was of an unnecessary but amusing amount of force.

“I’m going to sober you up for your own safety,” Connor announced, detailing that the process may be unpleasant, as Hank wailed and cursed and thrashed about as best as his inebriated self could. He moved like his limbs were independent of his brain, mindless, and Connor struggled to waddle him into the bathroom. Fortunately, Sumo neglected the command to attack and instead sat back to watch the show unfold.

“Get the fuck outta my house!” Hank Anderson grunted.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I need you,” Connor responded.

 

_It was like a slap to the face. An apology._

 

Connor consulted a file he kept on the effects of excessive alcohol and home remedial procedures to help Hank recover from his semi-dangerous ethylic coma. He guided him into the shower, a place that Hank did _not_ want to be, all while Hank chattered off things about being sick, Sumo ripping Connor’s legs off, and wanting Connor to get the hell out of his goddamn fucking house.

“I don’t want a bath, thank you,” the Lieutenant muttered, teetering along the porcelain edge of the tub. Connor wasn’t having it, however, and with one dutiful thrust pushed Hank into the basin, turned on the water, and listened to his screams.

Amusement blossomed in his stomach. He wondered if this was sadistic, beyond the measures he should’ve gone to assist a possibly useless drunk, hoped it wasn’t, and resigned to the fact that he was merely doing this for the sake of the mission at hand and nothing more.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?”

Had his objectives docket not been clouded with error messages regarding his concern for that loaded weapon on the kitchen floor, perhaps Connor would have found real amusement in the amnesiac tendencies Hank had while under the influence.

“A homicide was reported forty-three minutes ago. I couldn’t find you at Jimmy’s bar, so I came to see if you were at home.”

As a reply, Hank threw up some curse words about being assaulted by his robo-partner, comments that went over Connor’s head untouched. Connor instead insisted than Hank consult a professional about his drunken tendencies, which Hank did not take a liking to, and he shoved Connor back in an attempt to throw him out. Still Connor could not gauge what the adequate amount of concern should be in that situation, but was so immensely distracted with convincing Hank to accompany him, to stand up, feel better, that he could hardly look away, a smile and a frown appearing simultaneously on his face.

“Beat it, ya hear me!?” Hank roared. His voice was oddly pitched and it tuned in and out at random intervals. “Get the hell outta here!”

The facade of alcohol needed taken down, this much Connor knew. So after guiding Hank back down to his perch atop the bathtub, ignoring how the stench of whiskey was enhanced by the damp shirt and facial hair, he hatched an idea. He’d gathered that Hank, too, shared in a pulsing curiosity, as was common amongst those of his profession.

And Connor smiled throughout the execution, taking care to avoid being seen by the detective, only imagining what Hank’s feet looked like shifting and tumbling around by the noise as he spoke,

“I understand; it probably wasn’t interesting, anyway.”

No response. Hank’s breathing remained low.

“A man found dead in a sex club downtown…”

Connor felt eyes on the back of his head.

“Guess they’ll have to solve the case without us.”

Hank grunted, shifted his weight on the tub’s edge, slid his feet into the side so as to stable himself. Connor dared look at him from the corner of his eye.

“You know...probably wouldn’t do me any harm to get some air…”

>COMPLIANCE EXTRACTED<

“There’s some clothes in the bedroom there,” Lieutenant Hank Anderson directed, nodding crookedly to the ajar door across the hallway. Connor followed his gaze, beaming all the while. His partner noticed the expression too late and probably decided to let it slide.

“I’ll go get them.”

It was amusing, seeing Hank so easily teased and coerced. The threat of immediate alcohol poisoning removed from his list of concerns, Connor chuckled to himself with _affection_ as he searched through Hank’s obnoxiously colored button downs that looked as though they’d been thrifted, at best.

And, unfortunately, Connor had nothing programmed in his software to decide which shirt was the most tasteful, which outfit would offend fellow DPD officers the least, just like Hank seemed to have no knowledge regarding what was appropriate to wear and what wasn’t.

That made Connor laugh, too, even over the noise of Hank Anderson’s vomit, which Connor knew he would have the pleasure of cleaning up later.

 

_Markus was pulled from the scene on a positive note, yet the removal was still violent. The temperature dropped substantially, his vision was clouded as imaginary snowflakes dusted his eyes and stuck to his lashes. He was outside. He was content. He was excited…_

 

Connor knew the route, he was sure he did. It was a convenience that he didn’t _have_ to keep memorized, but it brought him satisfaction to know that he did. That he could find it on a moment’s notice, at the slightest provocation, at a mere suggestion of meeting there through a text message.

But in all his excitement, he’d forgotten the way. While staring at the window, praising the autonomous cars and their success despite the incident they posed years prior, he wondered if the sunlight bouncing off the snow mounds made the route seem different when it wasn’t. He wasn’t willing to accept his lapsing, failing memory merely as a result of his nerves.

They were so new to him, after all, so what right did _nerves_ have to disrupt his functioning so much?  
But he didn’t care the second he rounded the corner and saw the Chicken Feed food truck emerge from the horizon line.

He saw a non-autonomous car with rust skirting the bumper pulled up along the curbside. He saw footprints in the snow. He saw a leather jacket, a head of grey hair, a beard, broad shoulders.

His heart rate increased.

 

_Markus’ heart rate increased._

 

Hank hadn’t gotten his food yet. He was waiting for Connor, rolling back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet. He looked at ease, leisurely, and Connor worked hard to replicate that same air about himself. But as he started crunching his way through the white precipitate, he knew he was failing, because Hank only smiled like _that_ , big, with red cheeks and vulnerable eyes, when Connor acted “goofy.”

Connor meant to pause at an appropriate distance from Hank, which he’d calculated was about 3.16 feet, considering the fact they were now friends, but Hank traveled that distance just as Connor stopped walking. He raised his arms up slowly until they could reach around Connor’s shoulders, and reach they did- Hank pulled Connor in close until the sides of their faces touched.

Connor’s heart rate spiked.

 

_As did Markus’._

 

Connor hadn’t seen Hank, not really, since the incident at Cyberlife. The DPD had been a thundering storm of press conferences, interns up to their elbows in PR work, frantic phone calls and chaos, while Connor had been kept under harsh boundaries so as to protect him from any disgruntled protestors. After word got out about just _who_ released that wave of androids from the Cyberlife tower, Connor’s likeness, warm gaze and all, was not one he wanted to go about displaying in public.

They’d seen each other across rooms, over the heads of fellow detectives, in between the cameras and tablets of news reporters, and exchanged knowing looks. They’d fall in line together eventually; to rush it would have brought undue stress. But it did feel a bit unfair that Hank had interacted more with Gavin Reed than he had his own _partner_.

The only words Hank had managed to get in edgewise was a whispered promise. He swore to Connor that he’d make assistant detective before dawn on a late Tuesday night, thirty-nine hours after President Warren’s forces backed away from Jericho’s raised arms. Connor hadn’t found it in him to respond.

He still hadn’t.

“Dammit, I missed you,” Hank grunted into the collar of Connor’s Cyberlife jacket, which prompted Connor to realize that it wasn’t the best choice of attire.

“I...I missed you too, Lieutenant,” he answered. His hands seemed to take ages to reach Hank’s shoulder blades, where they perched awkwardly, unable to grab at the smooth fabric there.

Hank looked at Connor disapprovingly until he realized his mistake.

“ _Hank_ , I mean. I missed you, _Hank_.”

This satisfied him. He pressed Connor back into his chest and stayed there for a while, feeling content and alright. The street was actually quiet, without the noise of cars and the flash of camera shutters, imperative, prying questions, and angry mutters of “no comment.”

Connor could have stayed there a while listening to Hank try to make small talk directly into his ear, beard brushing tenderly against his cheek. Connor liked how Hank swayed, he liked how the snow melted off his hair slowly, he even didn’t mind the smile of stale coffee and cheap altoids that came from Hank’s breath. It equated into a situation that was peaceful, that eased Connor’s stomach-

 

_There was a presence behind Markus._

_But if he shifted he would injure the connection he made with Connor._

_He had to keep his eyes forward._

“You’re shivering,” Connor observed, feeling the quakes reverberate through Hank’s fingers.

_There was a cloud of static, physical and visual, in front of Markus as he viewed Connor’s memories. Something was trying to emerge out of it. Two arms, two legs, aged skin, narrow, pierced ears…_

“That’s cuz it’s fuckin’ _cold_ out here, asshole,” Hank retorted.

 

_Carl came out of the static, seated in his wheelchair, artfully tattooed arms gripping the sides. His mouth was moving and Markus desperately wanted to hear what he was saying, but he wouldn’t turn to face him, he was separate from this scene, a foreigner in Connor’s memories._

_But, for a moment, Markus didn’t care. The tug in his heart was too strong and gravitational. He tore his attention from Connor and Hank, leaned in close for a taste of his old life he’d thrown away so recklessly…_

_“...most boring party I’ve been to in the last twenty-five years.”_

_The cocktail party. Of course. Carl was wearing a red and grey patterned scarf, his coat was draped gracefully across his small set of shoulders. And Markus, in another era, appeared behind him, pushing Carl along._

_“...what the hell am I doing here?” Carl called, with a smile teasing his lips, and the current Markus, now a victim of a counter-interfacing session, wanted to ask him that very question._

_“I hate cocktail parties.”_

_“Well, it’s a chance for all those people who admire your work to meet you.”_

_Markus in this lifetime was so easy. He looked well, full, serene, and happy to be transporting Carl any which way  in his wheelchair, across the downtown Detroit snow but never casting footprints because he wasn’t really there. But he didn’t look happy_ **_enough_ ** _. Markus today would give every piece of himself to feel the handles of that wheelchair against his palms again, to hear the deep timbre of Carl, to watch him flick his arthritic wrist in pain strokes, to bear witness to his advice that he never took seriously enough._

_When Markus couldn’t breathe anymore, the past Carl and Markus faded back into static._

 

Connor, sensing a bonding moment between he and his partner, switched his temperature sensitivity on and was shocked by the opposing forces he felt: the immense warmth of Hank’s embrace and the freezing Detroit wind that blew a few flakes into his eyelashes.

He drew Hank even closer, finally initiating something, anything at all, and felt the trembling of his partner’s hands increase. Maybe, judging by this twitching and the incredible heat of his chest, Hank wasn’t cold but rather nervous. Excited. _Affectionate_. Overwhelmed. If so, it would be another sensation they were sharing in that moment.

“You’re right,” Connor conceded, meaning to summon more humor, to lighten Hank’s tension, but was cut off by lips pressing against the side of his neck, by a shake that rode its way through his ears to his feet, the need to frantically lace his hands in between Hank’s long locks, and the feeling of a collapsing chest.

 

 _Markus still couldn’t breathe_.

 

Hank fizzled out instantly and was replaced by static,

 

 _the same static that Carl had emerged from_.

 

The scene around Connor melted away into whiteness. Cold, blinding hail struck Connor’s cheeks as he raised his hands to shield his face. There was  ~ **FƎ** /- **A.** **> ****Ɍ #**?hammering in his heart. Ahead, a figure approached, dark in complexion, robed from head to toe in white, damning ultimatums come to a close pouring from the lips.

Amanda.

 

 _Amanda_.

 

Markus tore from Connor’s grasp, wrenched back his hand, and held it close to his chest, not yet bothering to behold his partner.

There were tears outskirting Markus’ eyes, threatening to spill over.

He heard Connor speak, all that _affection_ void from his voice,

“I’m so sorry. I was...I was…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and I know I've left things unanswered but I promise they'll be answered in no time at all!


	4. Containment Cell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lot longer and more experimental than the previous chapters. I'm writing this on a night-by-night basis, too, and since I'm feeling pretty emotional right now, it's reflected in my words.  
> I'm also writing according to the playthrough I got when I made my way through DBH, so I assure you every event I describe in Connor or Markus' memories happened. And, just as a note for readers: I gave the tickets back to the family for the bus :)

**4**

**CONTAINMENT CELL**

  
  


“You were vulnerable. I couldn’t...I couldn’t help but connect back. I’m sorry.”

It was deeper than a connection through memory probing. He’d gone deeper than that. A mere memory probe wouldn’t have this strong of an effect.

“Markus, I’m sorry. I...we can stop now, if you like. We don’t need-”

A mere memory probe wouldn’t have reduced Markus to tears, wouldn’t have planted Connor’s feelings in the pit of Markus’ stomach, even those that were beyond the scene unfolding between him and Hank. There was something darker that lingered, that materialized from the snow, that sent pins and needles throughout Connor’s circuits.

Markus was afraid to touch Connor now, lest those pinpricks be transferred to him again.

“You started interfacing,” he whispered. There was nothing accusatory in his tone, however, just bewilderment and shock. 

Connor swallowed. “You...you seemed affected by my memories. You were defenseless. It felt like you wanted me to…”

“I didn’t,” Markus intervened. It was harsher than intended, but he was too busy drying his eyes to care. They hadn’t grown damp like that in a long time.

“What happens now?” Connor questioned, resigning himself from the decision. While Markus appreciated his understanding, apologetic nature, he almost wished Connor would bear the brunt of moving forward. 

It wasn’t Connor’s fault that they’d surpassed memory probing and entered into a state of interfacing. It was, for one thing, a sentiment of the trust they were accumulating; interfacing was an intimate affair, something that encompassed almost all types of relationship natures defined by humans: platonic, romantic, sexual, familial, et cetera, and to achieve it said something about the emotions running between both participants. 

Therefore, Connor’s memories must have affected Markus on a level he hadn’t anticipated. And that wasn’t Connor’s fault. He couldn’t be held responsible for the other’s sensitivities.

“You...you care very deeply for Hank.” Markus was regaining his balance; he resumed simulation of breathing. “You were compelled to share in that moment of intimacy with him, after he initiated it.”

But Markus knew all of these things. He’d felt them in perfect sync, beat by beat, along with the android in question, and it didn’t explain Carl’s resurfacing, nor the spikes of blizzarding tension.

“You cared for Carl deeply, too. Maybe you saw yourself and Carl in...in Hank and I…”

Despite the stress of the moment, it was good to see that Connor was embarrassed to refer to his partner and himself in such sentimental interactions and situations. It proved he was conscious of their affectionate nature. He also seemed hesitant to compare Carl and Markus to himself and Lieutenant Anderson, for the context and contents of both relationships couldn’t be more dissimilar, but Markus understood nonetheless.

It made sense.

“Maybe,” he conceded.

“Did you see her too?”

Connor spoke up the second Markus stood up to stretch his legs, to crack his knuckles and adjust his wrists, old habits picked up by Carl that Markus rarely exhibited anymore. 

He had seen her, if just barely. The snow-stormed garden was a scene he would not soon forget. And yet, judging by Connor’s large eyes and hollowing cheeks, he’d seen more. His memories had replayed even more vividly than Markus had borne witness to.

“I did.”

Realizing the magnitude of this, though still not knowing what it meant, Connor shook his head. 

“I don’t feel affection for her. I feel...I feel…”

He was in distress. His LED turned a steady yellow, interluded with a single blip of red. They didn’t need to decipher this now. Strangely enough, Markus felt an even stronger inkling to continue reviewing Connor’s memories, though suspected it was for reasons far more selfish than making good on a promise to a companion.

“We don’t have to worry about that now,” he assured him. “We’ll make a note that she’s come up. Again.”

Markus tapped a few words detailing the phenomenon on his tablet before attempting to resume their connection, yet Connor held back. Confusion riddled his brow.

“I mean it. We don’t have to continue. I’ve violated your privacy, I’m not cut out to participate in memory probes…”

But Markus took Connor’s hand in his anyway, ignoring the look of shock it earned him.

“It’s okay. I trust you.”

He would relinquish some of his memories, the sincere ones he’d kept from even the likes of North, Josh, and Simon, to Connor if it meant reliving any  _ one _ of them. Markus couldn’t tell where this precarious need for the past came from, but he wanted to fill it,  _ needed _ to fill it, and didn’t care if it defied the image of “fearless leader” he’d established for himself among the Jericho crowd. Knowing Connor, he’d probably seen through it ages ago, anyway.

 

_ He didn’t want to ask Connor if he was ready. Markus gripped Connor’s hand, wrapped his fingers around his wrist and forearm, and tumbled into the next stage of Connor’s deviancy: grief. The oncoming scene washed over him in waves, waves that pushed and pulled without regard, without ceasing, until sterile lights blinded him and sadness was punching him in the gut. _

 

Connor raised his hands up slightly, confession after confession pouring from his mouth, endless. He’d kept these results of his curiosity under lock and key for so long now, worried that should Hank learn the extent that Connor’s snooping had achieved he’d excommunicate the android, and was relieved to be expelling them now. But he expected a bigger sense of alleviation.

Not this sadness.

“His name was Cole.”

Hank was lowering the gun.

The faulty Connor was looking on in panic, tongue-tied.

“And he just turned six at the time of the accident.”

There was no relief, just sadness. Connor saw it in the dip of Hank’s brow, in the fold of his steely eyes, in the quiver that raked through his wrists.

“It wasn’t your fault Lieutenant. A truck skidded on a sheet of ice and your car rolled over.”

The fake RK800 crept closer, but Hank was enraptured in his own  _ grief _ , not watching. Connor wondered how surreal it was, to hear the tragedy of one’s lifetime replayed back to him in this factual manner, but he knew, should he invest anymore emotion into this recollection, it would break  _ something _ inside of him.

“Cole needed emergency surgery but no human was available to do it, so an android had to take care of him.”

Hank swallowed. Connor could see the dip in his throat. Sorrow panged around in Connor’s chest, between his ribs, drew a bad, harsh taste to his mouth that made his esophagus clench in pain. 

Was this  >e  _ ₘ _ **P** // Aṯ  **h -** ẙ ?##- ?<

“Cole didn’t make it.”

Whatever it was, it hurt.

“That’s why you hate androids.”

Hank looked weak, in the knees and in the head. His jaw kept tightening and opening at intervals that Connor determined had no order. His fingers and palms were running over the hilt of his pistol. The fake Connor looked confused beyond recognition. 

The real Connor needed to fix what was certainly a split running down his middle, though he could feel no Thirium leaking out onto his jacket and button down. He needed to reach Hank. He needed to fix the weakness. He needed to hear Hank  _ speak… _

 

_ Markus moved on the second Lieutenant Hank Anderson parted his lips to say something, awash with disbelief over how traumatic the scene at Cyberlife tower, the very action Connor had risked everything for in the name of Jericho’s revolution, was to him, yet how minute he’d always made the conversion of over one thousand androids seem when it was brought up. His modesty was as maddening as his curiosity. _

_ Markus tilted sideways in an immediate ninety degree angle and landed inside an unfortunately familiar scene. It was snowing, but visibility was still adequate. The white-robed figure appeared, anger in her tone. _

 

Amanda was upset with Connor. She was unhappy. Connor didn’t need to consult his facial analysis to come to this conclusion. He could feel it in his core, an itch unable to be reached.

She told Connor things he already knew in the middle of a gentle snowfall, drilled into him the severity of the situation regarding humans’ reactions to Jericho’s protests, which had been admirably non-violent thus far. But she wasn’t having it. 

“I thought Kamski knew something,” he admitted, knowing full well what her answer would be and still revealing his fault to her nonetheless. He didn’t know why he did that.

“But I was wrong.”

“Maybe he did.” 

Amanda didn’t miss a beat.

“But you chose not to ask.” She highlighted the word “chose” in her speech.

In that chilled garden, Connor had options, some of which he knew would provoke her, some he knew would regain the trust they’d once shared in abdundancy. He had options. He could see them. But he couldn’t access them.

“I-I chose not to play his twisted little game. There was no reason to kill that android.”

He chose an unstable option and Amanda’s face fell.

They went back and forth, Amanda getting increasingly upset with her prized prototype and Connor trying frantically to glue his mouth shut and failing every single time. The  _ frustration _ he was growing used to experiencing was full in his gullet; it made his fists clench and his words come out jagged. 

There were secrets she hadn’t revealed to him, details about Kamski, the Deviants, and Cyberlife he hadn’t been trusted with.

His pride was injured. Her blatant distrust in him tore a part of himself away. He was without a support system, and Amanda handed him an ultimatum.

_ Markus knew when and where this ultimatum would come to fruition, too. _

 

“Find the Deviants, or there will be chaos. This is your last chance, Connor.”

The trust of Cyberlife was ripped out from under his feet, yet the machinery, the circuitry, the software, and the programming inside Connor prevented him from expressing this. It was all he could do to nod and shut his eyes, block out the ever-intense countenance Amanda posed to him, and wait for her to fade out. For once, his reality where he wasn’t bleeding loss and  _ sorrow _ appeared better than this once otherworldly retreat within himself.

 

_ He was leaving Amanda’s garden. The snow encased Markus’ entirety, blinding and stifling him, until the only sense that remained was his sense of sound. The clicking of keyboards, the swish of automatic doors, and the tense mumbles of a workplace played so loudly in his ears he felt as though his head might burst. He was dropped upside-down into the DPD headquarters. The lighting was painful and artificial. _

 

Connor had time to kill. Lieutenant Anderson would surely be meeting with Fowler for a while, considering the aggravation that consumed him the moment he’d been called into the office. Something threatened to pull Connor into the chief’s office with him, a subliminal tug he didn’t yet have the vocabulary to define, but, now slowly getting to know Hank, he refrained. Instead, he resolved to explore.

It was equally as in-character of him.

On that early November afternoon, Connor’s direct experience with the Detroit police had been limited to one crime scene and one interrogation, both which he’d succeeded at. He expected no praise and, accordingly, received none. The android he’d found confirmed all humans’ fears about the beings and his interrogation extracted a confession so haunting he was shocked officers still asked him about it, if not with feigned indifference.

It was Connor’s second most powerful memory concerning the DPD, next to his interaction with Hank following his unconscious drunken stupor. Thus, he decided to act upon it, and seek out the android he’d been unable to get out of his thoughts for days.

The Deviant was in the containment cell farthest to the left. No one came to visit him, of course, and he sat in the cold, white light looking despondent and empty. At first glance, Connor believed it to be the same expression he wore during the interrogation, as confession after confession fell out of his blue blood-soaked mouth, but as Connor crept closer, he noticed something else lingering, inside the folds and the contours and the interior.

His eyes were glazed over, unblinking, unyielding. He stared out of the reinforced glass wall of the containment cell with the emptiest gaze Connor had ever seen. It drew him close, made his chest twist at funny angles; he couldn’t help but press his hand to the screen.

“They’re going to destroy me,” he told Connor, innocence spiking in his voice. It twisted Connor’s insides now, too, and he scrambled to form a reply. Connor’s LED flicked yellow. He said something of sincerity when he didn’t mean to.

“I’m going to die.”

Connor didn’t want that. He didn’t want to see an android so obviously traumatized by the welts and bruises and burns carved into his inner workings be disassembled. But if Connor avoided all the things he didn’t want, he was starting to realize that he would have been deactivated a long time ago.

The Deviant started to self-destruct the moment Connor turned away. He slammed his head against the containment cell’s glass four times before he fell to his motionless knees and onto the floor. 

The glass was slick with Thirium. Connor’s system gave a lurch, a lurch of sadness, of regret, of confusion, of disgust, of  _ grief _ . He didn’t want this.

 

_ The scene flickered with static. Markus heard a grinding noise behind him and turned his head instinctively, just in time to see a large, grey shape rise from the floor of the DPD headquarters. It stood before Markus, still and lifeless, and drew words on its front. _

_ CARL MANFRED _

_ It was Carl’s grave. Markus, a Markus from late November 2038, was standing in front of it with his arms dangling pathetically at his sides. He was speaking, but the current Markus didn’t need to hear himself talk, and he couldn’t hear Carl speak, so he tried to pull back away from this memory. There was no utility in being there, but he was stuck. _

_ Markus in that moment was telling a dead Carl about his biological son’s recent red ice overdose and how he was in the hospital, all alone, and the only visitor who’d bothered to visit him was Markus himself, and how Leo had done the best someone in his state of weakness could to shove Markus away. He asked Carl what he should do, and never got an answer. _

_ Nowadays Leo was in a cell all his own in rehab. Markus hoped it was more beneficial than that hospital had been. _

_ Someone else’s heart was aching for Markus.  _

 

Connor’s heart ached with the scene before him.

 

_ There _ was  _ a  _ mess  _ of _ sadness  _ between _ them.

 

Connor decided to pry.

 

_ Markus reciprocated. _

 

Connor was in front of the Traci models, both of whom were struggling not to cry, as one detailed her struggle against her human assailant. Connor was lowering his weapon before he could even think the words, “Amanda will be mad.”

 

_ Markus was before a feeble, sickly android with big eyes and flayed, burned, and blackened plastic. She asked his name. He answered. She expressed gratitude at having interacted with Markus. She died with his hand in hers. Thus was Markus’ introduction to Jericho. _

 

Connor stood in the freezing limelight of Elijah Kamski’s mansion, waiting with Hank for the man of the hour to show. There was a pit in his stomach that grew larger each time a Chloe model walked past. Connor’s maker enslaved Connor’s kind. Connor’s heart bled for them.

 

_ Markus received word of two fallen androids, a woman and a child, on the riverbanks of Canada on November 11th, 2038. He spent the day in the shipyard with wet eyes. He screamed occasionally at the sky. _

 

Connor was in the hull of Jericho. Androids were dying around him. He’d been on the wrong side this whole time.

 

_ Markus was being blamed for Carl’s death. Bullets tore into his shoulders, chest, and face. Carl was dead on the floor. _

 

Hank lost his son on the operating table. Hank cried about it in his sleep. Connor couldn’t help him.

 

_ Carl was gone forever. _

 

Connor didn’t know how to help him.

 

_ There _ was  _ a  _ mess  _ of _ sadness  _ between _ them.

 

This time it was Connor who vacated their interfacing session. His fingernails scratched Markus’ forearm; he suspended his arm in the air once they’d assumed their independence of thought, as though afraid to touch an infected limb. He stared at Markus in a way that Markus simply couldn’t handle. 

And yet, despite the recollections beating into Markus, things he’d been learning and practicing burying, a sense of fascination still managed to burn a hole through the wreckage. In between his hitched breaths, he wondered and wondered and wondered about the uniqueness of Connor’s grief: it had almost  _ nothing _ to do with himself.

He was so concerned with failing Cyberlife, with the loss of an android life, and with the preservation of Hank Anderson that Connor, the RK800 prototype, grew lost in the crossfires. It had to be exhausting, for it was exhaustingly pure of heart and noble.

Tears dotted Connor’s eyes. It made his deep, intense brown appear softer, watered them down in a way. They acquired a muddy shade, but he wouldn’t let them fall. He kept those tears behind his eyelids, probably puzzled about their being there for it was once thought that androids couldn’t cry, and tried to talk. Markus had no clue what he would decide to comment on.

“The female Deviant…” he started, staring at the painting of the two Detroit skylines again. “Kara. Her and the little girl...they didn’t make it?”

Markus didn’t know that they’d ever interacted, Kara and Connor and Alice. But their demise meant something substantial to Connor, and suddenly it was hard to be the bearer of bad news. 

Markus shook his head no.

And Connor’s tears perhaps would have fallen, streaked down a cheek so pale it was as white as Amanda’s snow, had there not been the sound of the alarm system resigning, letting someone in, and the shuffle of shoes in the foyer.

A new voice called to the stricken androids, 

“Markus?”


	5. Error

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is horribly long and was finished at a very late, desperate hour. It's probably littered with spelling errors and awkward syntax that I'll fix as I find them! I'm sorry for the length, I hope it lives up to any expectations anyone may have, and I hope you don't mind the undertones of Simon/Markus I threw in!  
> And if you're looking for a nice Hank/Connor song to listen to this weekend, check out "Sunscreen" by Ira Wolf. It reminds me of Hanks' cheesiest, most sincere thoughts :)

**5**

**ERROR**

  
  


A vice grip unwound from Markus’ ribs. He visibly sagged, letting loose tension in his shoulders, chest, and jaw. He flicked his stare to the source of the noise, expression dripping in gratitude and relief.

Connor, meanwhile, exhibited a very different reaction to their being interrupted. His pupils narrowed, his eyes widened, his frame stiffened, if that was even possible, and his hands fell still just above his knees. He only brought his stare to the new voice once Markus got up to investigate.

Markus knew its identity. He’d spent months learning it, memorizing it, appreciating it. Immediately he let its presence start washing away the stress of he and Connor’s situation, and met the source as they turned into the living room.

“Oh, Markus. S-sorry, I didn’t know you were still-”

“That’s alright. We’re taking a break now.”

Simon stood before Markus, smiling weakly, barely daring to blink around Markus’ form in order to catch a glimpse of Connor. Simon also looked nervous, but it was an emotion he experienced frequently, so it posed no real threat.

No, Simon didn’t pose any threats. He was an eradicator of such things, gentle enough to scrub away all stress, to alleviate all tensions. Thus, all Markus’ tightness faded away when Simon ran his fingers up Markus’ forearm in a grasp so much softer than Connor’s, and shut his eyes.

Simon was soft. Markus’ eyelashes fluttered until they shut, casting him in a darkness he could appreciate, delight in, even, and grow lost within.

 

 _Markus fell slowly into the protest downtown, sunlight touching his cheeks softly until the warmth forced his eyes open._ _It was going well; North was at the head, blaring her confident voice into a megaphone, relishing in the responses she earned, realizing she didn’t need Markus at her side to make any sort of difference. She was a force of change all her own._

_ Josh stood at her side, helping keep the crowd at bay and looking at North with pride. It seeped from his being, seeing her partake in protests that were in his style, one void of aggression and intimidation. Many an argument they had regarding not just the message but the tempo and mood their early revolution demonstrations should convey. Nowadays they called it compromising, but even North knew there was no need for clenched fists. _

_ Simon observed from the back, collecting all this information to show Markus when he arrived back at Carl Manfred’s mansion. Simon observed everyone around them, provided the leader of Jericho with crystal-clear visuals of each face awash in joy, passion, fascination, and enlightenment. It made Simon’s chest swell with happiness, as it did Markus’. _

_ And it made Markus hesitant to confide in Simon. He didn’t want to ruin the mood his companion was in, the sort of quiet, humble bliss only he could achieve.  _

_ But Simon was persistent, too, and could sense that Markus was holding back. He retaliated by tightening his grip along his arm, still no match for Connor’s clench, but it caused Markus to squint tighter until, slowly, he let Simon inside what he’d witnessed that day, in his own memories and in Connor’s. _

_ It came out in a mess of snow, rain, and sunshine. Streaks of Thirium and dead androids on Canadian snow. Failed operations and bullet wounds. Android victims of rape and their dying wishes. _

Simon pulled away at the first sign of Carl, understanding what sort of day Markus had. Markus parted his eyes again and watched as Simon placed an open palm on his shoulder. The touch was barely there, weightless, and conveyed a deep sense of recognition, implied later conversations for later in the evening, when things calmed down, when his business with Connor was finished. 

Markus didn’t often think of Carl, or at least never publically, and never in a manner so obvious that his friends may pick up on it, so Simon quickly learned the situation was of a grave nature.

“You two have your work cut out for you today, don’t you?” Simon finally commented, staring at Markus for too long, until finally adjusting himself so that he could see Connor, at whom he directed most of the question. It took Connor a beat to reply.

“...Yes, I suppose we do,” he answered. “I appreciate Markus taking the time to map out my emotions’ timeline.”

“Markus doesn’t leave promises unkept,” Simon patted the hand on Markus shoulder, and Markus detected notes of dry humor in his timbre. 

“Did North tell you to say that?”

Simon winked.

“I’ll leave you to it. I only came to get the H-Flags. North thought she packed enough but the turnout for the protest was a lot bigger than anticipated,” he informed. “She said there was a stock of them in the study upstairs.”

There was, holographic flags with programmable images Markus had saved from their defamation of the Cyberlife store in downtown’s central square. Simon knew where they were. He was talking just to talk, to alleviate that unsettling expression Connor still wore on his face. It wasn’t working.

And when Simon turned to leave Markus was reminded of the pulling sensation Connor felt so strongly toward Hank, the sensation that raked through his insides when proving himself to Lieutenant Anderson at the Cyberlife tower, and he reached out to Simon, who looked taken aback by the motion.

He needed dialogue to justify the motion. He scrambled to say something of value.

“When...when will you be home tonight? So I can time Connor’s and I’s plan time together correctly.”

Simon saw straight through the irrelevant question but didn’t press. He was so unlike North and Josh.

“It depends on when, or if, that asshole plans to address us. It’ll probably be late.”

Simon leaned slightly into the touch.

“But I’ll be home.”

He departed after that, taking with him the remnants of Markus’ instability. He felt better now, less like his insides were trying to squish in between his ribs and more like he could understand that endless tugging Connor felt toward his DPD partner. But he couldn’t drop that bombshell on him, not yet, not when Connor was still so in the dark about his timeline. They had two of the most important emotions left to cover.

Connor actually relaxed his posture when Markus started toward him again. He acquired a curious pose about him, this time his agog nature taking over more than just his expression and spreading to his entire figure. Markus didn’t know how he did that.

“Do you take care to define your relationships?” he asked, just as Markus was resuming his seat beside him. They were farther apart now than before, and Markus didn’t know what he meant.

“What do you mean by-”

“Humans define their relationships very narrowly. It helps them sort through their feelings and determine what is appropriate to be shared with whom, physically and emotionally. Do you do this, too?”

_ Did _ he? It was a sensible thing to do, but was so awkward and cursory when Connor explained it like that. Obviously Markus would not share what he did with Simon with North, nor Carl with any of his current companions, altogether excluding Leo, and he had yet to categorize Connor…

“I guess so,” he decided upon. “Don’t we all?”

To this, Connor furrowed his brow. His LED flashed yellow, just for a moment. 

“I guess we do. But we...at least  _ I _ was programmed to define such relationships purely on a need-basis, meaning only relationships that were crucial to my success did I take the time to define and contemplate. I avoided what was inappropriate and learned how to interact with those I knew.”

The train of thought here was lost, marginally off course.

“I’m not making sense,” Connor spectated. Markus nodded, and Connor set his jaw firm. Surely he was searching for the proper rhetoric to phrase this.

“I only defined relationships that were beneficial to a purpose beyond...beyond what we’re discussing here today. But now, I think...I think that changed. I define them by...by what  _ I _ …”

Markus had a bad habit of looking too intensely at people, especially during trying moments. He meant the look to be sincere, but it often came across as harsh and invasive.

He knew he was showing this expression to Connor as he searched and searched for the words, but, fortunately, Connor commanded both a vocabulary and a countenance that surpassed what Markus had seen before, and was unaffected by the potency of his companion’s stare.

“I define relationships now by what  _ I _ want, by what I perceive the other participant wants, and what would be most beneficial to us both. There’s no objectives or higher purposes involved anymore. I find that my relationships can fit into the types humans have created, in...most cases. Do you do this, too?”

North and Josh were close friends with whom Markus shared his thoughts and feelings with and whom he trusted indefinitely. The people of Jericho were like an extended family to him, each with their own individual identity he could spend ages and ages learning. Leo was an estranged sibling with whom Markus would’ve liked to bond. Carl was a father to Markus, and he left a hole in the shape of an arthritic fist.

“Sure I do,” Markus decided upon. This egged Connor on, because apparently there was a second part to his horrendously worded question.

“How do you define your relationship with Simon?”

This wrenched Markus’ eyes wide open and stuffed a load of shocked silence down his throat.

Connor was too damn curious.

“I...I don’t know...I don’t  _ always _ define my relationships, I guess…”

And it took a while for Markus to realize the halfway grin playing across Connor’s thin lips because he was too busy covering the trail of affection he’d left following Simon’s arrival, interaction, and departure. But when he did, he felt frustrated with Connor for the first time all day.

“What are you getting at?” he asked, swallowing to control the pitch of his voice.

Connor’s smile widened, but he shook his head, surrendering. He resolved to leave the knowledge and context and facial analyses and heart rate calculations circling in his brain unspoken, despite knowing exactly what it all meant. Besides, he had ulterior motives.

“Nothing. I...I admire your transparency when speaking to Simon. That’s all.”

It was a sincere compliment, there was no denying that, but there were layers to it that Markus couldn’t help but scrutinize.

“Are there still relationships you have trouble defining?” Markus asked. There was an answer. It danced across Connor’s independent objective’s docket list, perhaps sending a few error messages his way. Those were funny, the error messages, because upon reaching deviancy, they had nowhere to be reported to.

Connor fiddled with his sleeves as he made the decision to reply or not. He blinked a few times, black eyelashes against porcelain, freckled cheeks twitching under pressure. Connor had a mole on his jawline that shifted with his unspoken words.

And then he spoke them.

“Sometimes I wish I could connect like this to Hank. It would make things a lot easier.”

That  _ tugging _ sensation was certainly alive in Connor. Markus couldn’t imagine the pressure it placed on his sternum.

Abruptly, as if realizing the weight of his confession, Connor ceased his fidgeting and grabbed Markus’ hand from his lap, pressing his determined fingers into the skin there.

“Empathy is next, correct?”

Markus nodded, turning himself to face Connor more fully, astoundingly interested in the new initiative and desperation Connor was showing. 

“Lieutenant Anderson says he knows the moment at which I became Deviant. I intend to prove him wrong, because I remember the moment you posed me the question and I had to break through the walls to reach my answer.”

Was he doing this out of  _ spite _ ?

“Empathy is what got me in trouble with Amanda,” he clarified. “I want to understand my experience with it better.”

During this tangent of his, Markus resumed his furious note-taking, eyes and mind alive with conclusions about the state of Connor. There was far more emotional development there than anticipated. If anything, Connor couldn’t understand it not through any fault of his own; there was just too much of it for any one person to work through.

“What, do you think your experience with empathy is extensive…?” Markus tried, distracted and merely filling space up with the question. He didn’t expect Connor to answer, really.

“N-no. Well, I don’t know. Lieutenant Anderson says otherwise, says I feel more for people than he ever could. But I don’t…”

Hank Anderson had a shocking amount of power in this internal struggle of Connor’s. No wonder Connor found issue in defining the Lieutenant’s place in his life.

Markus allowed his skin to recede back to white gracefully, watched in anticipation as Connor followed suit. The exhilaration Connor felt was already affecting Markus as only the sparks of their interfacing caught flame. 

And he expected the world in Connor’s empathy, and still got so much more.

 

_ Markus tipped in a perfect circle before his shoes hit a muddied puddle of rainwater. He was standing at a curbside. A torrential downpour flooded the sewers. A late 2010s car pulled up, painful music rattling with heavy drum beats and aggressive vocals playing inside, and Lieutenant Hank Anderson stepped out. Connor stayed inside, per Hank’s request, but quickly resolved to disobey. _

 

Connor had to stay in line with Lieutenant Anderson. It was the objective that hung above the rest; his software typed it out in red. Therefore, even though he knew it would elicit a negative reaction, he followed his new partner at the heels, footsteps temporarily silenced by the pounding rain, but he was noticed the moment he stepped under the awning of the food truck.

While Lieutenant Anderson expressed his annoyance at having been tailed so much, Connor read the food truck’s sign with contempt. It was tacky, “Chicken Feed.”

The lieutenant didn’t pay for his meal. He exchanged a few hush words with a quirky character draped in a hooded sweatshirt and hat for 2.48 minutes. He eagerly acquired his burger and sugary drink and, after Connor received some derogatory remark from man within the truck, dragged Connor to a small table under the cover of an umbrella, no wider than a lampshade. Rainwater stained the Lieutenant’s shoulders.

“You shouldn’t eat that,” Connor marked the conclusion to his rant regarding the impudent nutritional facts he analyzed from Lieutenant Anderson’s meal with a tough, reasoned stare. It had no effect. If anything, Connor’s partner seemed to take pride in the disgust with which the android regarded his meal.

They discussed a lot of things while Lieutenant Anderson ate, all while the seasoned detective feigned disinterest in the android and his origins. Connor was trying so hard to find a soft spot to aim for and dive in, but Hank’s defenses were virtually full-proof. Connor inquired about the his obviously shady company, yielded nothing short of a curt yet upstanding response. Connor asked about his eating schedule and learned, tragically, that his partner ate here nearly every day. He attempted to berate Lieutenant Anderson for placing an illegal bet and was met with indignant silence.

Lieutenant Anderson then asked why Cyberlife had made Connor appear and sound so “goofy.” Until that point, Connor assumed Cyberlife had been successful in facilitating his integration. Lieutenant Anderson thought otherwise 

Finally, growing frustrated himself, he asked why Lieutenant Anderson didn’t like androids. It was a weighted question, Connor knew as much, but suspected it was the only area of Hank that wasn’t already numbed away. And he was right. Hank had his reasons for his hatred, and said nothing more.

Next Hank asked Connor what he knew about  _ him _ , a test of some sort, and Connor was presented with the choice to either lie or tell the truth. In hoping to relate and bond with his partner, Connor chose the latter. He said the following,

“I know you graduated top of your class. You made a name or yourself in several cases, and became the youngest Lieutenant in Detroit. I also know you’ve received several disciplinary warnings in recent years. And you spend a lot of time in bars.”

It was all the byproduct of Connor’s absurd curiosity. He’d snooped heavily at Hank’s desk. And yet, impressed with the level of information Connor gathered for such an innocent question, Hank asked the android for a verdict. An opinion. A vote of truth.

Connor, starting to  _ empathize _ with the weight the world had chosen to put on Hank Anderson’s shoulders, replied,

“I think working with an officer with... _ personal issues _ is an added challenge, but adapting to human unpredictability  _ is  _ one of my features.”

When Connor winked, his LED flicked yellow. He was bombarded with software error messages. He received a report about another Deviant, and took several seconds to blink the distractions and blurred vision away.

**ERROR; EMOTION DETECTED. CATEGORY >INTRAPERSONAL< // UNABLE TO DEFINE.**

**PLEASE CONTACT CYBERLIFE FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS //**

“I just got a report of a suspected Deviant,” Connor struggled. The error messages appeared to be losing their grip.

**ERRoR ; EMOTIO N DETECTED . CATEGORY >INtRAPERSOƝ AL< // DEFINED AS**

**_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ .**

**PLEASE CONTACT CYBERLIFE FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS** **?** **//**

“It’s a few blocks away.”

#.(initiating diagnostic analysis) DEFINED AS _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ?

“We should go have a look.”

 

_ Suddenly, Markus blinked away these error messages and was thrown into a midnight setting. Before him was a tall barrier of chain link, two scantily clad female androids, Connor, and an evidently winded Hank Anderson. Tension was rising high into the air. Markus could see it in the way Connor had stopped simulating breathing. _

 

Connor’s finger was slippery along the trigger, like it didn’t want to be there.

He wanted Hank’s instructions. He wanted a voice over his shoulder to tell him what to do. His objectives docket and the text displayed there was making him dizzy. The blue-haired Traci faded in and out. Connor’s LED flashed red, maintained a steady yellow, and he knew that she’d noticed.

Then the red-haired Traci drop-kicked Connor in the chin. Her partner started speaking, and Connor’s chest started to swell.

“When that man broke the other Traci, I knew I was next.”

Connor was now vaguely aware of a few grunts and groans behind him; Hank was coming to, having been dealt impressive blows to his jaw and stomach. High-heeled shoes were weapons in their own right.

“I was so scared.”

**ERROR; EMOTIVE RECOGNITION... SENDING ERROR REPORT TO** **_CYBERLIFE_ ** **./**

**EMOTION IN QUESTION: _ _ _ _ // NOT PROGRAMMED IN ANDROID SERIES RK MODEL 800 /**

“I begged him to stop but he wouldn’t. And so I put my hands around his throat, and I squeezed, until he stopped moving. I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted to stay alive…”

The red haired Traci emerged once again from the shadows. She gripped the other Traci’s hand in hers. Connor could barely see through the error messages.

“...get back to the one I love.”

**ERROR; EMOTIVE RECOGNITION... SENDING ERROR REPORT TO** **_CYBERLIFE_ ** **./**

**EMOTION IN QUESTION:** **_ _ _ _ _ _ _** **// NOT PROGRAMMED IN ANDROID SERIES RK MODEL 800 /**

_ Empathy. _

Connor understood and  _ empathized  _ with her fear. He felt the gun slowly slipping from his fingers and a whirlwind in his chest, knocking his ribs together.

_ Markus couldn’t believe what he was watching. _

 

Connor let the two Deviant Traci models go. He watched them climb with grace overtop the fence and waited for Hank to berate him for his failure, but such a berating never came to pass. Instead, Hank admitted that things were “better this way,” and Connor, the dutiful partner he was, followed his footsteps when he turned to leave, his stomach in shambles.

_ The scene faded into a sea of blue light, the same that radiated off the Eden Club from which those Deviant Tracis came. When the hues finally departed, Markus found himself in, for once, a familiar scene: the Stratford tower broadcast room. Except his crew was nowhere in sight. Instead, the room was abuzz with police officers, CSI investigators, a wide-bellied man in a hawaiian button down shirt, and Connor. _

_ And there was a pit in Connor’s stomach and a bond far closer between himself and Hank that Markus hadn’t encountered for a while, not since the DPD partners’ embrace outside of the Chicken Feed truck. _

 

Just one casualty seemed abnormal to Connor. It was so random that, out of all the people involved, the mysterious Deviants claimed the life of just  _ one  _ man. He was shot dead from the back, fleeing, surely to alert the authorities. Connor wondered if it pained whoever fired to shoot. His mind wandered back to the Eden Club.

It wandered and analyzed and wandered some more until he stopped in front of the room’s largest monitor, a floor to ceiling screen with the face of the Deviants’ broadcast pasted along its front, a sheet of white, nameless plastic that commanded more attention and emotion than Connor could comprehend.

Connor indulged himself in listening to it. Hank was busy interrogating the nearby human employees and conversing with the first responders. Connor’s objectives docket included but one instruction: understand what happened. He figured that the epicenter of the break-in, the purpose, the  _ broadcast, _ was as good of a place to start as any.

 

_ Markus felt something pinch at his insides. Not only was he about to hear himself speak in what felt like lifetimes ago, but he was to witness someone reacting to it. Firsthand. _

The android in the broadcast spoke calmly, with purpose and admirable control, and somewhere along the way Connor forget to send their voice through his records. He forgot to replicate and draw up what their face could possibly look like. He forgot to read their serial number. Connor just listened, let the words hit his ears and be  _ understood _ , for the first time in a while.

And it sent waves and waves of realizations, as cloudy and confusing as they may be, rushing through him.

“You gave us life,”

_ Markus said. _

“And now the time has come for you to give us freedom.”

It was Hank who pulled him out of it, his daze. A hand on his shoulder, a prying gaze into Connor’s eyes. He managed to discover the identity of the android from its serial number and registration: it went by the name of Markus, belonged to a wealthy artist who lived on the west side of Detroit. He had accomplices, too, which Connor could see in his pupils. He had two different colored irise, one green and one blue.

Connor didn’t share this with Hank. Something about this Markus’ words, his appearance, his message, felt oddly personal to Connor, felt as though they couldn’t be shared with a human of Hank’s disposition. Not yet at least.

Connor let those words sink into him for the rest of the investigation until he realized, having shot the Deviant android he interrogated and nearly died in the process, the one who let Markus inside the broadcast room, that he  _ felt  _ for them. Markus’ cries for peace  _ meant _ something to Connor.  _ Empathy _ was all they asked for, and Connor felt as though he was crazy for denying it to them.

But that wasn’t on his objectives docket.

 

_ Markus had felt for Connor when he met him. That’s why he’d trusted him, against everyone’s (even Simon’s) wishes. It’s why he allowed him passage into Jericho, why he held his hands up in the face of Connor’s gun, and convinced him.  _

_ In that moment, their senses of empathy seemed to collide, and it pulled on Markus hard, made his chest taut and caused his throat to ache with the emotion of it all. It was hard to watch Connor, programmed to do something so wrong while the rest of the world told him to do something right, fight this battle, and Markus felt increasingly privileged to witness this internal struggle. _

_ And he was grateful for Hank. Thus far, he’d been Connor’s steadfast hands, his landing strip, his point of impact.  _

_ Suddenly, a gunshot rang out in Connor’s memories. The broadcast room was enveloped in static until Markus found himself back inside Jericho, during the raid. Connor was clad in different clothes now, the same dark attire he’d initially appeared before Markus in, practically bleeding with Deviancy, and was preparing to sacrifice himself for the group. _

 

Connor could hold them off. He knew he could.

He was oddly at peace with giving his life to the people of Jericho. Markus’ speech from that broadcast was all he could hear, really. It comforted him. 

He recalled Hank’s proposition, that perhaps they really were fighting on the wrong side all that time, and swore that he would detail the irony of his current situation to Hank should they ever meet again.

He hoped they would. As Connor ducked under the fire of a semi-automatic, he hoped he would see his partner again, if only to thank him for that obnoxious distraction he pulled off in order to get Connor to Jericho.

He wouldn’t take back any of it. The feeling of having Markus and his companions behind him set Connor ablaze in a way he’d never experienced before; people had faith in him, not his programming, not his objectives, not his maker nor the company he’d once sworn allegiance to. They believed in  _ him _ . They related to him and his struggle, and him to theirs. Jericho was a ship full of androids’ compassion for each other, and Connor had arrived just in time to embrace his own sense of  _ empathy _ .

He really hoped he would see Hank again. He had so much to tell him, so much to thank him for.

Connor was Deviant and okay with it, as long as he could show and tell Hank all about it, as long as he could save all these androids, as long as he could stop Cyberlife, prove himself to Markus, stand up to Amanda, and change humans’ perceptions of androids forever. He would be okay with it.

 

_ Connor  _ and  _ Markus’  _ memories  _ were  _ intertwining  _ now,  _ into  _ the  _ mess  _ that  _ was  _ the  _ raid  _ on  _ Jericho.  _ They  _ both  _ saw  _ the  _ carnage  _ and  _ tragedy _ . They  _ bought  _ caught  _ fleeting  _ glances  _ of  _ Kara  _ and  _ Alice.  _ They  _ both  _ watched  _ their  _ comrades  _ gunned  _ down  _ by  _ hostile _ , ignorant,  _ bleak  _ faces  _ hidden  _ behind  _ bulletproof  _ masks  _ and  _ vests.

 

_ Markus was eternally grateful to Connor not for his success, but for his sacrifice. _

 

Connor felt this in Markus and felt his heart give a lurch, feeling validated, letting the relief of being empathized with and understood seep into him.

 

_ But there was still more to see. And, judging by how strongly Connor reacted to its impending appearance, this final memory was of significance. Perhaps this is where he and Hank’s discrepancy regarding Connor’s deviancy arose? _

_ Regardless, Markus was suddenly bathed in cool, bluish, sterile light, trapped in the confines of sleek marble floors, modern art, and stress. He was struck with a feeling of  _

**_F_ ** **_E_ ** **_// A_ ** _ #.. R, something not yet identified by Connor, and disappointment. _

 

Elijah Kamski was not who Connor naively hoped he would be. He was cold and calculating, malicious and slick in his words and deviously manipulative in his actions. He was excited by Connor’s visit not because Connor was the peak of the technology Kamski played the central role in developing, but because Connor posed an opportunity for Elijah Kamski to display how he could control the machines he’d made in his crooked,  _ human _ image.

When Connor refused to shoot the Chloe android, he pretended, even to himself, to not know why he stood there motionless.

For once, it wasn’t because of Hank’s rattling into his ear, begging with him to leave a freak like Elijah Kamski alone. No, this time Connor made this choice himself.

He was going to get in trouble for it, but he couldn’t bear even the thought of the lights going out behind her innocent blue eyes. She’d done nothing wrong. She’d only been shielded from the new, enlightened thoughts being perpetuated by Markus and his group of Deviants. Connor knew that, should she be exposed to their revolution, she would convert. No one would willingly be shot in the head because their maker wanted to prove a point, to run a test. 

No, he couldn’t shoot her. He  _ saw _ himself in her. He would be sick if he pulled the trigger.

He was going to get in trouble for it.

**ERROR; IRREPARABLE SOFTWARE INSTABILITY DETECTED (!);**

**> EMOTIVE RECOGNITION/PREVENTION PROTOCOLS FAILED;**

**> PLEASE RETURN TO CLOSEST CYBERLIFE FOR SHUTDOWN, REPAIR, REACTIVATION //**

He put herself in her shoes. Connor succumbed to empathy. Amanda was going to kill him.

**EMOTION IN QUESTION: empathy // NOT PROGRAMMED IN ANDROID SERIES RK MODEL 800 /**

Connor and Markus removed their respective grasps on each other at the same time, knowing full well that to embark any further or deeper into the analysis of Connor’s empathy would leave them exhausted beyond recovery. Markus had several “overheating imminent” messages flashing around his head; Connor’s LED was stuck at a dull red.

Connor bled empathy like it was his own blue blood. Markus hadn’t even gotten a memory of his own in edgewise. Connor took up all the space, and then some. 

No wonder he was so tired.

“Hank…” Connor tried, sinking back a little into his seat. “Hank thinks I went Deviant when I refused to shoot that Chloe model at Kamski’s. But I remember breaking through when you asked me, in Jericho. What do you think?”

Markus thought he saw the most complicated android to ever be invented before him. That’s what he thought. Designed to stop the Deviants yet designed to be so intelligent, so curious, so hands-on and vulnerable that there was no way in hell he couldn’t slip into self-awareness himself. It was a beautiful catch-22, one that had to take an army to endure.

Markus was so, so happy that Connor had Hank.

“I think...I think your deviancy took a while,” Markus decided upon. He meant it. “I think it was a process, less of a singular moment and more of a progressive movement toward self-realization. I mean, everything about you...you should have shot her, the android…”

The timeline was coming to fruition, though not yet in any actual, definable order. It was the accumulation of Connor’s emotions, not the order in which they appeared, that drove him to deviancy, and there was a clear, clear catalyst involved here.

Again, Markus was so, so happy that Connor had Lieutenant Hank Anderson.

“I don’t know. But I do know that there’s absolutely no way you  _ couldn’t  _ have become Deviant.”

It looked as though Connor had heard something like that before. It painted his countenance in an unhappy light, contemplative and grave. He looked about his surroundings for a moment, watched as the rest of his false skin regenerated along his hand, and swallowed.

“I didn’t shoot her because she was afraid to die.”

A combination of both empathy  _ and _ fear, something they hadn’t even reached yet.

And Markus was asking the question before he could think twice about it.

“Are  _ you _ afraid to die, Connor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! i'm writing this as of august 23, 2018 in my NEW COLLEGE DORM ROOM! that's right, i just moved into my college yesterday and it's been great so far. unfortunately, that means i won't get to work on updates for a little while. it will take me a few days to get part 6 out but don't worry, i'll get it to you asap! thank you for understanding and for all your support so far :) <3


	6. Connection to Cyberlife Corrupted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience! I am so sorry for the wait on this one (check out the notes on my previous chapter for my reasoning) and I hope you're able to navigate your way through this beast of a chapter! I know it's horribly long and much more Connor-oriented, but the poor boy has so much experience with fear that I struggled condensing it all!  
> Also a shoutout to the author Octobig; I drew inspiration from the way they converted text to look like a jumbled mess in their fic. Please go check their works out if you have not already!

 

**6**

**CONNECTION TO CYBERLIFE CORRUPTED**   
  


If androids breathed, Connor would have embodied perfectly the phrase “knocked the wind out of.” But androids didn’t take in oxygen nor expel carbon dioxide. Their simulations, the bobbing up and down of their chest, just stopped. Connor’s stopped.  _ He _ stopped. 

Markus had reached the last layer of the Deviant before him, the last pieces tightly wrapped and tucked away. It wouldn’t be easy, removing the defenses. Already Connor was proving this, yet Markus still appreciated his efforts. He obviously was trying to respond, opening and closing his mouth, hoping the words would find their own way there.

Eventually, he decided upon this,

“Are we supposed to be afraid? Of dying?”

Markus had met death and walked away from it on several occasions, never realizing the scope of his luck until the moment had passed and he was being scolded for his reckless nature. Never, even when staring his potential demise in the face, had he been afraid. And some may call him ignorant for saying so, but Markus  _ knew  _  what fear felt like, and staring down the barrel of a gun didn’t invoke it.

There was fear in the loss of others, in even the remote possibility of the loss of his comrades and companions. There was fear in the noise of gunfire down a metal hallway, in the clenched fists of a violent, drugged addict, in the final words and death of a loved one whom he’d grown so foolishly dependent on. Markus would never forget the endless squeeze of fear and the way it made him want to scratch his throat open to breathe.

But they weren’t supposed to  _ be _ anything. How Connor phrased his question upset Markus, for it implied that Connor, when stressed, reverted back to searching for instructions and rules to follow. He needed to learn to feel independently, even when the feelings were unpleasant to endure.

But, judging by his scores and scores of empathy and compassion, Markus wouldn’t imagine what  _ fear _ meant to Connor, and took a step back for a moment. Perhaps he should go easy on him.

“I don’t think we’re  _ supposed _ to do or be anything,” Markus answered. He watched Connor, the very lenses in his eyes, take him in.

“But being afraid of death is natural. We...don’t often wish it on others. Or that seems to be the case, usually.”

Perhaps Connor’s fear of death, one he wouldn’t yet admit to, stemmed from his empathy? There was only one way to find out.

Markus willed Connor’s hand from his lap, where it sat entwined in the other. There was a tremble in his joints and knuckles. The skin there was already blipping between his pale facade and the white of plastic, caught between excitement and dread.

“This...this could be unpleasant,” Markus warned. Even he was concerned about what Connor could unearth from  _ Markus’  _ memories, for he certainly didn’t want to relive anything especially traumatic.

“I know,” Connor answered. He was trying hard to summon his programmed bravery, the sort that made him disregard all natural inclinations for personal safety. It didn’t work too well; instead, his reply sounded high-pitched at the end.

“If you need to stop, just pull away. I’ll understand-”

He was cut off by Connor wrapping his fingers around Markus, nearly reaching his elbow, and moving so close their knees nearly touched. It was far more anticipatory than before. Connor was charging ahead and trying to abandon his own sense of well-being. He was trying to control a situation he was  _ afraid _ of.

While Markus admired the courage, no matter how genuine it was, he knew it wouldn’t stand a chance against Connor’s own psychological makeup. They all were broken down by fear, after years and years of being forced down by a combination of terror and programmable obedience; fear was inescapable. But now, if they could own it, feel fear for  _ themselves _ , Markus hoped Connor could arrive fully at a new, complete understanding of himself.

He hoped. He really did.

 

_ Markus landed hard on his shoulder on cold tile. A woman wailed in the distance, the noise reverberating off a shattered fish tank. The air was choppy and tense, humans fumbled around in stress, jangling their bulletproof attire all the while. And when Connor showed, all but one thing was the same about him: _

_ He stood as straight and still as a board, his shoulders exactly below his ears. Each step he took was equidistant from the one before. Each flick of his eyes was purposeful, analytical,  _ **_mechanical_ ** _. Connor was the android sent by Cyberlife to defuse this hostage situation. _

_ But his nervous ticks, those fidgets and tremors he never seemed to shake, were alive and well inside this far less Deviant RK800... _

Connor took the time to save the fish. It didn’t earn him much, but he noticed the creature flopping aimlessly on the cold tile, suffocating slowly, and placed it gently into its habitat. He didn’t look to see if it appeared grateful; he dug into his jacket pocket for his coin and continued dribbling it across his knuckles and palms.

It was then that the woman fell into him, elbows pressing into his chest, desperate, yielding only when she saw his swirling blue LED. And horror overtook her, a look of dastardly disgust, anguish, and fury. The SWAT agent had to drag her away while she screamed herself hoarse,

“Why aren’t you sending a real person?!”

It didn’t affect Connor, though he filed the opposition to androids away in the case file, knowing the tidbit could be potentially useful in understanding the situation.

He was thorough in his investigation. He located the gun, reconstructed the death of the father of the household, located the tablet displaying the little girl and the Deviant, Daniel, an PL600 model. Connor switched off the stove; the family had been about to eat dinner. He read the order forms for a new android. He understood that these new things, anomalies,  _ Deviants _ , grew anxious when their efforts, their following of instructions, ended in failure despite their success.

In the PL600’s mind, he’d done nothing wrong. He’d merely fashioned a bond with the family and worked to please them. His software could not decipher the error in that. And, frankly, neither could Connor’s, but he wasn’t there to unpack the family’s motives. He needed to save the young girl. 

Within four and a half minutes he was pushing through the reluctant SWAT agents and their captain, who’d regarded Connor with nothing less than open, bleeding derision. He peeled back the furiously swaying curtain that led out onto the poolside balcony, only to have his shoulder be struck by a bullet. Thirium spattered the glass sliding doors. Connor looked knowingly at Daniel, memorizing the stress lines and contours of his deranged expression, coming up with a way to best defuse the situation.

Daniel wasn’t angry. He was hurt on an emotional level. He’d been betrayed and took it out on the easiest target, the very human he’d bonded with. It was a twisted thing only an android bent completely to the irrational, 180 degrees, would do.

“Hi Daniel. My name is Connor,” Connor called, taking care to ignore the pleading look Emma served him with. Her knees were bloodied. She’d witnessed the shooting death of her father.

“H-how do you know my name?” the Deviant exclaimed. He was standing with his heels over the edge of the building, the girl, Emma, pinned by the shoulders to his chest. A gun was in his hand. He waved it around dangerously.

“I know a lot of things about you, Daniel,” Connor promised. Slowly he advanced. The helicopter overhead was sending outdoor furniture spiraling, some toppling to the street below, and the patio was slick with pool water. The noise made Daniel’s stress levels spike.

It turned out that Connor wasn’t cut out for hostage situations, not out in the field. There were too many intrapersonal connections and analyzations he had to carry out; he couldn’t get far enough in Daniel’s head. Deviants were a new breed of technological evil. Maybe Connor needed reprogramming, an upgrade, maybe a new model altogether, or perhaps this instance was just an anomaly, a sequence of events unable to be predicted nor explained by any observable statistics.

Connor was just missing something.

 

_ Connor couldn’t contemplate empathy yet. He didn’t understand at a personal level the pain of Daniel, the PL600. Markus, trying hard to differentiate this Deviant from the other blonde PL600 he’d grown so attached to, knew from the moment the memory was presented to him that Connor would fail. Connor  hadn’t met Hank yet, after all. What more could one expect? _

 

Either way, when Daniel requested a car that he would drive to the outskirts of Detroit. Only then would he let Emma go. Connor knew this was out of the question, and he told Daniel as such.

The Deviant didn’t take a liking to this response. In retaliation, he twirled the gun clumsily in his fingers, proclaimed his one and only decision as a “free” android, and shifted his weight away from the building. He was falling, Emma was screaming, and Connor was dashing toward them, arm extended.

His objectives docket was thumping like a live, human heart in his head: SAVE THE HOSTAGE AT ALL COSTS.

Connor grabbed Emma’s wrist in midair, flung her with all the strength he had in the opposite direction, and had just enough time to see that she was safe before he was diving with Daniel, soaring at speeds unknown to the city streets below. The wind whistled in his ears, fluttered his eyelashes, nearly blew off his Cyberlife jacket.

When he landed with a resounding crunch of plastic on the ground, he knew the mission was successful, and his sentience faded to a cool, calming black.

 

_ Just as Markus was realizing the horror of witnessing first hand someone’s death, he was served with a facefull of icy snow and felt anxiety hammering ferociously in his chest. His throat was tight and clenched, his limbs locked together, immobile. Fear. Connor was feeling fear, weeks and weeks later. _

 

There wasn’t anything to see on the roof of the Stratford tower. Connor knew this rather quickly. He’d mapped out their escape route with ease, traced their footprints in the snow, since human eyes failed, and even admired their success for having each of their team members make it out alive and their bravery for taking such a plunge.

Yes, it was the  _ plunge _ that was bothering Connor.

He approached the edge of the roof gingerly, feeling like his knees were melting with each uneven step. He didn’t need a better look from that angle; his curiosity was just eating him alive, as usual, but he’d never experienced such a violent reaction to it. 

It wasn’t until his hand was placed along the frozen, miniscule guardrail, did he finish reconstructing their dive from the rooftop, and his memories flew back to Daniel and Emma, the pool water and the helicopter, the descent down into those busy Detroit streets. He recalled his own literal death, and a vice grip wound around his ribs. It pulled them tight, crushed his insides, and made him want to claw out his throat.

 

_ Markus was shaking at Connor’s fear, realizing that the only thing worse than witnessing someone’s death via their memories was actually experiencing that death not once but over and over again at any post-trauma trigger. _

 

Connor was terrified. Error messages littered his objectives docket. 

**ERROR; MOBILITY COMPROMISED...SEARCHING FOR SOURCE OF FAILURE**

**> ATTEMPTING RECALIBRATION…**

**> RECALIBRATION FAILED (!)**

 

**ERROR; BREATHING SIMULATORS FAILED...SEARCHING FOR SOURCE OF FAILURE…**

**> ATTEMPTING REINITIATION…**

**> REINITIATION FAILED (!)**

 

**ERROR; SENSORY/RECONSTRUCTION ANALYSES ANOMALY DETECTED...**

**> ATTEMPTING MENTAL DIAGNOSIS…**

**> MENTAL DIAGNOSIS FAILED (!)**

 

But the messages were gone as soon as he came, as soon as he shot away from the edge and into Hank’s open palm. Connor’s partner wore a confused and concerned look and asked of Connor’s state of mind. 

 

_ This was indicative of character development. Weeks prior, Hank would not have bat an eyelash at Connor’s emotions. Despite the severity of the situation, Markus appreciated this interaction of theirs; it lessened his own tension. _

 

“You alright? You’re lookin’ sick, if that’s even possible,” Hank voiced. His touch was heavy on Connor’s arm, which helped ground him. The shock was starting to fade, and Connor didn't move away until he regained feeling in his legs.

“Yes...yes, I’m fine,” he answered, blinking and blinking and even rubbing his eyes. “Just some error messages. Nothing of import.”

Hank resigned from the conversation, not believing Connor but unwilling to press. And Connor appreciated this, too, felt it bubble in his gut, and he let the good feelings distract him from the one’s he couldn’t yet understand. 

He wasn’t supposed to be capable of fear. That was the most erroneous program Cyberlife could have possibly thought to install in an RK800. There had to be an explanation for such a visceral reaction, but his diagnostics weren’t picking up on anything. All those errors had remedied themselves without his knowledge.

He couldn’t feel fear. Amanda would know if he did, and she wouldn’t like it.

And Connor’s wiring tightened at the thought of Amanda, leaving a haunting almost-realization in its wake, one he couldn’t yet confront but knew he would have to soon.

 

_ The scene dissipated once Hank and Connor began departing from the roof, footsteps aligning perfectly in pace and direction. It was a slow fade, such that Markus was nearly convinced that the scene to transpire next would be of a calm, low-paced nature, but he was enveloped in cold again, and his insides were hammering together, desperately trying to release undue stress.  _

_ Being in Connor’s memories was taking a toll on Markus. He wasn’t sure if his design was capable of keeping up with the likes of an RK800, and wasn’t sure how well Connor was equipped to experience first-hand all that he had… _

 

There was a gun pointed to Connor’s head.

He was standing along the lakeside, near a park. His footprints were already being filled in with snow. His temperature sensors were still activated, and he was cold.

There was a gun pointed to Connor’s head.

The car ride there had been smooth, if not awkward and quiet, but so were all other interactions between himself and Lieutenant Anderson. He’d spent most of it staring at Hank’s window, watching with awe and interest as his partner’s breath, warm and damp with human-made moisture, fogged up the glass.

There was a gun pointed to Connor’s head.

Hank hadn’t even drank that much. Connor ran diagnostics to calculate the exact danger entailed by getting in a car with his partner, and was okay  _ enough _ with the results. There were two beers perched on the bench where Hank had been seated, one not even quite empty yet.

Hank was pointing a gun to Connor’s head.

He’d asked too many personal questions. Hell, Connor had grown so wrapped up in his inquiries about Hank that he’d forgotten to preface them as such. And he’d grown so insensitive, frustrated at their lack of progress regarding the case but refusing to empathize with Hank’s obvious distress. rA9, deviancy, the trauma at the Eden Club, reducing the Traci models to naught but machines, when the scene that they’d witnessed had obviously flustered Hank…

And that question.

Why had he answered that question like that?

“And what about you, Connor?”

Hank slid himself off the top of the bench, his steps uncoordinated and legs bending lopsided at the knees.

“You look human, you sound human…”

He approached Connor with little speed but much intent.

“...but what are you really?”

Connor needed to empathize, to make up for the conversational opportunities lost thus far. He needed to amend the wounds he’d seared open about Cole, make amends for being so cold and calculating, for following Hank like a dog, for being an android, for not taking up the correct place in Hank’s life…

“I’m whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant.”

 

_ Something was blossoming inside Markus, inside Connor, that reached beyond fear. It was stretching out Markus’ ribs; he was shocked to hear such sincerity and earnest come from the RK800. _

 

“Your partner, your buddy to drink with, or just a machine...designed to accomplish a task.”

Connor was woozy on his feet. He’d never been dizzy before, and he didn’t like it.

“You coulda shot those two girls, but you didn’t,” Hank pressed, edging even closer to Connor. Suddenly, he shoved Connor backwards with an open, tense palm. “Why didn’t you shoot Connor?”

Connor didn’t know yet. 

_ Yet. _

 

And if he knew he would’ve told Hank the second it entered his mind.

“Some scruple suddenly enter your program?”

He was overtaken so completely by error messages that he couldn’t make them out clearly; they appeared as a jumble of red and white and black text. He physically shook them away, trying to meet Hank’s eyes, despite his endless dizzy spell.

Connor didn’t want to shoot the Traci models. They didn’t deserve to die. What he wanted was to tell Hank this, but his tongue was starting to feel too big for his mouth, and he was  _ afraid _ of the repercussions.

“No.”

But Connor’s voice remained firm. Indignant, almost, and pushing against restraints he wanted to shed so badly, but he couldn’t be rid himself of what he couldn’t see.

“I just  _ decided _ not to shoot.”

Hank looked as though the world had been slid from out and under his feet. There were twitches in his eyelids, his cheeks underneath his beard, in his hands and knuckles, like he didn’t know what to do with the energy Connor’s answers spurred.

“That’s all.”

But eventually Hank did make a decision about what to do with all this spare energy, spare energy that turned into chaos and conflicting emotions and remnants of a tortured past that Connor was still putting together the pieces of. Hank pointed his gun at Connor because Hank Anderson was supposed to hate androids, but couldn’t hate nor understand this one, and it was driving him crazy.

“I could kill you,” Hank growled, low and severe. “And you would just come back as if nothing happened. But are you afraid to die, Connor?”

In the midst of scrambling for an answer, LED running ragged, Connor’s systems stretched themselves thin and he had to cancel his breathing simulation in order to preserve enough power. And still,  _ fear _ , raw and potent, pumped through each fiber of his being. 

“I would certainly find it regrettable to be... _ interrupted _ ...before I can finish this investigation.”

Hank Anderson was not supposed to pointing a gun at Connor’s head. According to Connor’s extensive analysis of their relationship, there should be minimal hostility between them. He’d taken care, to an unnecessary degree by professional standards, to be kind and cordial and considerate to Hank. Yes, he still served as an annoyance to Hank, but nothing Connor could comprehend should’ve driven his partner to homicidal tendencies.

There was no reason for the Lieutenant to be threatening his life.

_ It was clear to Markus that Lieutenant Anderson was undergoing a personal turmoil all his own, one that Connor in that moment was only just beginning to understand. _

 

Nevertheless, Connor’s reply was of impressive weight and meaning. He’d admitted  _ fear _ . It felt wrong and foul-tasting on his tongue; he waited for a Cyberlife representative to jump out at any moment to apprehend him, shut him down, take him back to the nearest factory for a full body breakdown. He waited to be summoned by Amanda and forced again and again into the stream in the garden there until his forehead bled Thirium from being shoved to the ground so much.

Yet such events enever came to pass. Connor was just about to be shot by someone he’d foolishly grown dependent on and attached to, beyond the realm of what was appropriate between DPD partners, and he couldn’t see straight. He was dizzy and stressed and overcome with the same  _ terror _ that the Traci’s attacker invoked in her.

“You think you’re so fucking smart,” Hank snarled, in between the blips of static flicking across Connor’s vision. His voice was hard to make out. Connor _hated_ _fear_.

“Tell me this, smartass: How do I know you’re not a Deviant?”

 

_ Markus and Connor’s connection surged at the mentioning of deviancy. Markus felt ripples in his wiring, felt Connor’s fingers dig further and further into his skin, and started to hear a faint mumbling outside of their interfacing/memory probing. Connor, overwhelmed by his past fear and confronting another instance of near death, was mumbling to himself in real time. It was distracting, haunting even.  _

 

Connor wasn’t a Deviant. If he was, he would be deemed a failure. He would fail Cyberlife and fail Amanda. 

He would be condemned an anomaly and end tragically. He was  _ afraid _ of that outcome and needed to do his best to avoid it.

“I self test regularly,” he confessed, now almost pleading with Hank the best way a breaking down android knee-deep in an identity crisis knew how. “I know what I am and what I am not,” which was flat-out lie.

Connor waited and waited for Hank to lower the gun. And Hank did, in anger and frustration, after Connor stared and unmasked the human, empathetic, and good-natured tendencies his partner kept under such thorough wraps. They didn’t speak upon departing from the park. It took Connor ten hours to regain control of all his systems.

 

_ Markus blinked and was inside a new memory, the Connor in real time still whispering softly to himself, sometimes repeating the very things he said in his own subconscious. They found themselves in a scene familiar to Markus, somewhere they’d been before, the prefacing moment to an earlier encounter. _

 

Connor touched the shoulder of a random android with care and gentility. He closed his eyes and channeled the altruistic energy that resonated off of Markus, showed the android the way, and felt a connection spark back. It was a beautiful, unearthly thing, the fizzling to life of deviancy, and Connor let it fill up his insides, bubble to the surface, fill him with a feeling of purpose, a purpose outside of Cyberlife, outside of Amanda, independence…

“Easy! Fuckin’ piece of shit…”

Connor didn’t need his verbal recognition programs. Something far more sentimental resonated with him at the sound of that voice.

“Step back, Connor!”

Connor ceased his connection with the android, having been so close to a full conversion, with rigid limbs and wide eyes. Hank was standing a few paces ahead with another RK800 model, identical to Connor yet still so different.

For one thing, the original Connor would never have a pistol aimed at Hank Anderson’s temple, no matter the context.

“And I’ll spare him,” the false Connor called. He meant what he said. His arm was robotic and stiff and firm. Hank fumbled next to him, stressed and confused, if not afraid, an emotion Connor had yet to see in full across his partner’s face.

“Sorry, Connor,” Hank managed, cringing away from the RK800. “This bastard’s your spittin’ image.”

He really was. His skin was the same hue, his eyelashes and eyebrows the same deep brow. He had the same pores on his nose and the same flecks of darker and lighter shades in his irises. He wore the same clothes, clattered in the same shoes, and spoke in the same voice.

But the tone was different. And his movements were different. He was fierce and confident, aggressive and mission oriented, cold and calculating, void of a sense of self. Connor, the real one, could see it in his expression, or lack of one, and it chilled him to his core.

How much the real Connor had changed, he’d never been able to consider like this. Now, by comparison, he was as human as he could possibly imagine.

“Your friend’s life is in your hands. Now it’s time to decide what matters most!”

The false Connor nodded to Hank and then to the thousands of blank, sleeping androids.

“Him, or the revolution!”

Connor was revolted when his natural instincts took over, something he didn’t even know he could have until they kicked in. All semblance of Markus and Jericho faded away in an instant. For the first time in his life, Connor acquired tunnel vision that centered solely around Hank Anderson, and hated himself for it, but he couldn’t live with the stabbing  _ fear _ of losing his partner.

How did anyone handle fear?

 

_ Markus drew no offense at having taken a backseat to Lieutenant Hank Anderson. In fact, he found it moving. Among a lot of things, it proved to him this: Hank was the one and only reason Connor had gone Deviant, not Jericho, not Markus himself. It was the fear of losing a human he’d by chance grown so attached to that drove Connor crazy, drove him to irrationality, the outdated definition of deviancy decided upon by Cyberlife. _

_ It reminded Markus of Carl. _

 

“I used to be just like you,” Connor admitted, riding this sudden wave of introspection. “I thought nothing mattered except the mission. But then one day I understood.”

 

_ Connor, the one in real time, sitting in Carl Manfred’s mansion, clenched tighter at the word “understood.” He was always understanding, trying to learn and observe more and more about himself and the world around him, but Markus had an inkling that some part of Connor, deep beneath the surface, somewhere where Cyberlife couldn’t even find, he’d known the toll Hank Anderson had taken on him. He understood beyond the mission. _

 

“Very moving, Connor,” the false RK800 chortled, unimpressed. This model appeared far more scathing than Connor had ever been. “But I’m not a Deviant.”

Hank blinked between the fake and real Connor. The real Connor could decipher the look Hank gave him, not in a timely manner, at least.

 

_ It was apologetic. Hank was apologizing for putting Connor through so much. _

 

“I’m a machine designed to accomplish a task, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do!”

It sounded so much like himself. Connor’s hand twitched along the android’s shoulder, and he couldn’t stop exchanging that unknown look of  _ something _ with Hank, whose face was growing more and more pale by the second.

“I’m sorry Hank!” he finally broke. “You shouldn’t have got mixed up in all this!”

Hank dismissed the apology in an instant. “Forget about me, do what you have to do!”

Hank was right, like Markus was speaking through him, demanding Connor deliver on his promise of a lifetime, but Connor couldn’t move.

 

_ Markus knew he would never require Connor to sacrifice Hank. He wished he’d been there to destress the situation, to alleviate all the error messages and overheating Connor’s system was enduring. _

 

“Enough talk!” The fake Connor pressed his gun right into Hank’s temple, who gulped and shied away from the weapon. “It’s time to decide who you really are.”

“Are you going to save your partner’s life? Or are you going to sacrifice him?”

_ Fear _ was sending Thirium pumping furiously throughout Connor, trying desperately to keep up with the weight on his insides. Connor’s LED was flickering red. He remembered all the slaughtered androids in Jericho. He remembered the Traci models. The Deviant who self-destructed in the containment cell, the same Deviant who he’d sold out. He remembered Chicken Feed, Hank’s heavy metal CDs, Amanda, rain, sunshine, snow, rooftops and parachutes, Kamski’s, empathy, grief, affection, frustration…

It all culminated into the most basic of human functionings: a fight or flight reaction.

 

**IRREPARABLE SOFTWARE ERROR DETECTED / CATEGORY: Ủ̧Kͧ͐͗͗͌ͧN̶͒ͣ͆ͦOW̢͊̔N͑̂͌͛?-** //

**CC͘ONN͞ECT̢I̴ON T͜O C̛Y͡B͡ER͜LIFE COR͠R̸U͞PTED**

love ͝d̢e͝t̴ected͜

̧sưb̨j͟e͟c̴t:͢ HA͝NK ͏ANDERS̶ON

̨o͞b̢jec҉tiv҉e̸s u͞pd̵at̡e͡d

SA̵VE ͟HA͠NK͢ AN͟D͏E͏R̸S͟O͠N

͡Y O͏ ͟U ̶ ͜L̢ O ͡V E ͜ ̡H ̛A N ͘K ̴

Connor saved Hank.

 

_ Markus was about driven to tears. _

_ Markus should have saved Carl. He should have struck Leo across the face, again and again and again to rid Carl of such a deadbeat son. He should’ve painted with Carl, played him music on the grand piano, played chess until their fingers were stiff, read his shelves and shelves of novels, travel guides, autobiographies, poems. He should’ve accompanied Carl to all the exhibitions and let him stay in when he didn’t want to go. _

_ Markus should have saved Carl. At some level, Markus knew he couldn’t have, that his passing was beyond his control, that he’d witheld his punches with Leo’s name on them not out of his android programming but out of his love for Carl, because Leo was Carl’s son, but he missed Carl. Markus missed Carl so much he still cried at night. His heart still broke for him. He still visited Leo in the hospital, left flowers at his grave, blocked off his bedroom to all members of Jericho. _

_ Markus should have saved Carl like Connor did Hank. He know he couldn’t have, but he should have. Markus admired the way Connor surpassed fear, even as it was beating like a drum in his ears, and charged the fake Connor. Markus wondered if Connor could feel his tears on their interlocked hands. _

“All right, all right! You win…”

Connor moved from the android and raised his arms in false submission. He was fighting. His fear converted to whatever the android equivalent of adrenaline was, and he thrived off the energy it sent coursing through him.

So when the fake Connor turned his gun on him, he was prepared. He shot him in the shoulder, received a minor blow in the same place, and charged with Hank safely out of the way.

The scuffle felt like an eternity, but it ended with Connor shielding his face with his hands as the fake RK800 perched above him, ready to strike. Hank had grabbed the gun and directed them both to stand up.

The fake Connor decided to babble, something Connor would never actually do, not in his current state.

“Thanks, Hank. I don’t know how I’d have managed without you.”

Connor grit his teeth and stared longingly at his partner. Hank was beside himself. He couldn’t tell them apart.

“Get rid of him. We have no time to lose.”

Connor couldn’t hold it together while the fraud talked and talked and talked. His words came out embarrassingly distraught.

“It’s me, Hank. I’m the real Connor.”

Hank didn’t know, not for sure. Connor knew that, when the moment was right and Hank wasn’t caught in the tendrils of inebriation, that Hank would never leave a decision up to chance. It would take a lot to fully convince him of the real Connor’s identity.

“One of you is my partner. And the other is a sack of shit,” he snarled, waving the gun back and forth. Unsure. Feigning confidence, feigning control, pretending to have everything together when he hadn’t in so long.

“Question is, who is who?”

The more and more the fake Connor spoke, the more aggravated Hank got, such that he practically turned to the real Connor for assistance in determining their identities. Connor, finding the calm in him to touch on all his knowledge of the Lieutenant, suggested the following,

“Why don’t you ask us something? Something only the real Connor would know?”

_ And Markus had seen this play out. The fake android uploaded Connor’s memory, so Connor had to rely solely on the bond he’d worked so hard to fashion between him and Hank. Everything from his rhetoric to his tone to his expression to his body language was indicative of their relationship. There was no way Hank couldn’t recognize this. _

_ Markus actually saw the moment in which Hank realized who was Connor and who wasn’t. His shoulders dipped and he let out a long sigh, long before Connor finished revealing what he knew about Hank Anderson’s deceased son Cole. There was devotion in the Lieutenant’s gaze, devotion, recognition, familiarity, affection, and love, the sort Markus had only very rarely witnessed first hand. _

_ But Connor hadn’t seen it. He was too terrified of being shot. _

 

Hank shot the fake Connor mid-plea, and everything Connor had came to a screeching halt. The fear left his body in one foul swoop. He felt as though he would melt on the spot.

 

Y̷̾̆̽ͦ͐̿̌̏O̧ͨ́ͯͪ̈́͒͑͒Ù͊ͬ͢͠ ̧͒̀L̢ͨͭ͊ͮ̚̕͟O̧ͤͮ҉̢V̨ͬ̽̈́̏ͪ͌̽Ë̎͑ͫ͋̂͢ ͒̔̽̈́ͥͨ̽ͬ͝ḩͪ̔̏ͦ̍ͥ̌̚͠aͮ͋̀́͐ͬͤn̢̧ͣ̂͂ͧ͊̋͐̂̓ķͭ ̸͗̓aͯ͒ͮñ̢͗̍̈́̇ͤͧͤ͜d̴̎ͮͪ̚͢e̶͒̈́ͫ͊̆ͨr͊̇͢s̈͆̏̈͊̃̚̕o̶̐̌n̶͂̒͗̌̈


	7. Inundated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very pleased to share this with you guys and very proud of it. I feel like I captured Connor very well, the exact way I perceive him, and I hope you enjoy the actual HankCon moments I included! Feedback is greatly appreciated and thank you for the support thus far.

**7**

**INUNDATED**

  
  


Androids couldn’t vomit. They neither had the mechanics to nor the ability to intake or expel any food. But Connor still wanted to. He felt a retching urge, felt his insides spilling out of control. Blow after blow, error message after corrupt error message, clouded his field of vision; he was encased in a spell of vertigo. 

 

_ Hank was about to say something when Connor and Markus’ vision went fuzzy. Their audios sounded as though they were both submerged deep underwater. Hell, they even felt the pressure in their chests. _

_ Just as Markus was bracing himself for the same nausea, suddenly he was overcome by a snowstorm in every sense of the word. He was ice cold, unable to feel or see anything except the dull hum of Thirium moving around in his wires and tubing. It was a haunting thing to be aware of. He felt like he could die, like he was painfully aware of how easy it was to shut down. He half expected blue blood to be pooling down his shirt. _

_ He couldn’t tell where he was until Connor, whose memory this still  _ **_somehow_ ** _ was, started moving. In the distance was a figure, dressed in a white even more translucent and pure than the snow. And once again, Connor’s fear strangled Markus. _

_ Connor had been right - Amanda really was going to kill him. _

 

Connor was like ice. He tried to rub away the feeling of his limbs freezing, but he couldn’t stop the shivering. He tried to control the flapping of his Cyberlife-issues jacket in the frigid wind, but it still nearly flew off his shoulders. He was lost, with only the faintest inkling of where he was, because surely Amanda’s garden had never endured such a storm as this. 

Surely he wasn’t supposed to have caused this much turmoil in his system. This was Cyberlife’s final stand.

“Amanda…!” he tried, catching glimpses of warmth,  _ artificial warmth _ , of skin, of hair, of tone, of being, in the distance, but he refrained from falling into her guidance like he’d done so many times now. Besides, he’d be rejected on the spot.

Connor was Deviant. He’d told Markus as much, and showed Hank Anderson so much more. He wouldn’t take any of it back, even if Amanda gave him all the chances in the world.

But Connor thought that the defiance and determination within him would offset the fear, when in reality it just made it all the worse. He’d never dealt with this sort of independence and indignation before, and it was going to get him killed.

But he was okay with it. It was the right thing to do. 

So why did  _ fear _ persist?

“What’s...what’s happening?” he managed, speaking to her back, which she had turned against him powerfully. It was a foolish question, but his systems were at a dangerous overdrive, and the feeling in Connor’s lips was dissipating.

“What was planned from the very beginning,” she answered. There was no rage in her voice, contrary to what Connor expected.

“You were compromised and became a Deviant,” she continued. “We just had to wait for the right moment to resume control of your program.”

Connor hated control. He wanted it for himself and wanted to take back all that he’d given away so aimlessly.

“Resume control…” 

He’d worked so hard. He’d saved Hank. Markus and North and Simon and Josh and Jericho were relying on him. She was supposed to be angry. Not all-knowing.

“Y-you can’t do that-”

“I’m afraid I can, Connor.”

He wouldn’t let her, he would-

 

_ Markus was engulfed in Connor’s peril. It suffocated him. It made his ears ring. Something in his arm felt more weighted, too, as though holding up something straight. It was almost tangible in his fingers… _

 

“Don’t have any regrets,” Amanda reassured him. Her white was starting to become overwhelming. The mere sight of it was starting to jam up Connor’s throat, starting to make his knees shake.

“You did what you were designed to do. You accomplished your mission.”

He’d accomplished nothing. Connor, standing with ankles embedded in snow, had never felt more like a failure in his life, and was coming to terms with the fact that personal failure, of the strength and caliber he was experiencing, bled so much more than extended failure. He would screw Cyberlife over again and again if it meant leaving this reality behind.

But he had been right. He’d made the right choices. 

Why was he scared then? 

Why was he going to fail if he’d done it all right?

“Amanda!”

Connor wailed into nothingness. He felt Amanda’s presence leave on a deeper level, as though he was plunged into a new loneliness. Cyberlife was breaking apart his innerworkings. They’d removed their watchdog, uninstalled her.

“There’s got to be a way…”

There had to be a way.

Connor was freezing to death and afraid. Death felt more real when he’d earned it. It felt more emotional, more tangible, more fearsome, and more  _ human _ . He couldn’t understand how humans put up with all this. He couldn’t see through the snow.

 

_ Connor was squeezing Markus’ hand, mumbling louder to himself now than he had before, things like “there is another way,” and “exit plan.” Markus shivered in time with the RK800 prototype, embedded fully, astonished at the tragic setup this android had been put in and admiring his persistence. _

 

Connor’s consciousness started flickering, a TV flipping through channels, an indecisive listener unable to choose what to focus on. He was in Amanda’s garden, he was back at Kamski’s place, he was pointing a gun to the back of Markus’ head at Jericho’s victory rally. He couldn’t choose a reality in which to reside, and seemed to have little control over the latter one.

 

_ Connor would have shot Markus in the back of the head had Amanda gotten her way. Markus flinched at this, involuntarily pulled Connor closer; they smacked their knees together. _

_ Markus was afraid for his own life. If only he’d known how close he’d been to losing it. _

 

Connor remembered Kamski’s escape plans. He placed himself in that distant reality just long enough to extract what was useful from it. In the thick of his ramblings about his own personal success, prestige, inquiries about Connor’s potential deviancy, he’d let slip the factoid of ways out in his programming. He always provided an exit strategy, and while Connor couldn’t fathom what utility such an installation in his programming could possess other than what he was to do with it in that exact moment, complete his deviancy and be set free from Cyberlife’s constraints, Connor was grateful to the man. He was grateful to the psychopath who’d enslaved Connor’s kind, grateful in a way that was encased in existential terror and smallness.

What was Connor, really, compared to Kamski? 

He reached a small, white arch structure that housed between its walls a raised platform. There was a fluorescent blue hand print there, something human looking, the only device in that whole place Connor couldn’t assign a use for nor had he seen Amanda interact with. It had to be the escape hatch.

What was Connor, really, but a failed machine trying too hard to be something he wasn’t?

The snow blew Connor to the ground. His knees  _ hurt _ upon impact. He crawled on the ice-ridden, cobblestone floor toward his glowing salvation.

He’d been  _ designed _ for this end. He’d been made to fail, made to be sent to the scrap yard, made to only be improved upon. His flaws were terminal, his identity crisis fatal and unyielding.

What had he wanted that was so out of the question? What about him was so frowned upon, such that Connor had been simultaneously feared, hated, used, and ignored for as long as he’d been alive? What stripped him of the right to  _ use _ the word, alive? He was tired of being told what and who and how to be himself. He wanted to understand the someone that  _ was _ himself.

That’s why Connor reached for that escape plan. That’s why Connor exited Amanda’s Garden, a space he vowed to one day claim as his own, and felt his eyes burn with a light so immense he seemed to fall into it forever.

And there was snow, rain, hail. There were tears, terror, shattered pasts, dead sons, open wounds, newfound bonds, healing wounds, repaired ignorance, forgiven prejudices. There was a new easiness, a new dependency, new devotion to rely on, the smell of stale coffee and cheap altoids. There were slobbery Saint Bernard dogs, oversized striped button downs, unloaded pistols placed in high shelves not to be reached in the midst of drunken stupors. There were reasons to live. There was a chance at life at the DPD. There were smiles there, a pristine desk next to one littered with photos from older days and donut crumbs. There was a home there, a home in the lowly streets of northwest Detroit in one bedroom houses, the one with the shattered window. There was Chicken Feed, sugary drinks, and there was affection.

 

_ Markus felt layers of Connor give way to something entirely new, something deeper than fear. It bathed him in warmth, in solidarity, in a new stability of the mind Markus had never experienced before. It sent Markus into his own subconscious; visions of paint jars, canvases, chess games, out of tune pianos, distant city lights, worn leather wheelchair handles, blonde hair, greying hair, blue eyes, and compromises, came to mind. _

 

Connor came to behind Markus, having already put his gun away. Jericho was cheering at their leader, at their right to call themselves  _ alive _ .

There was a new warmth in Connor that hadn’t been there in Amanda’s garden. Perhaps it was the heat he regained having emerged from that terrible snowstorm, he didn’t really know. But he decided that the first thing he would do as a newly free android was visit Hank Anderson. It sort of felt as though the new warmth was cresting there, wherever his partner was, and he wanted to see Sumo again, too.

Surely Markus would understand.

 

_ The timeline was supposed to come to a close there.  _

_ Androids didn’t feel more than those five outlined emotions Markus and Connor had discussed. Naturally there were bits and pieces left behind, fragments of those emotions that grew and grew into full-fledged feelings, but there was something different about Connor. _

_ There was heat beneath that fear they’d finally traversed. _

_ When Connor fell back into his senses and decided not to assassinate Markus in front of a jubilant Jericho populus, it seemed as though he’d unlocked another layer. In the middle of their interfacing, it registered to Markus like a babble of mismatched binary, amounting to nothing, that was so bright to look at and hot to get close to he nearly shied away. He wanted to shield his eyes, to break from Connor’s grasp, except he didn’t. _

_ The heat was attracting him, pulling him closer, just as Connor did the same. At once both he and the RK800 gripped each other a little tighter and collided at the knees. At once they both were consenting to probing a little deeper. Hell, Markus felt as though Connor was bleeding curiosity and transfusing it through a conjoined tube. He wanted to know what Markus thought of the heat just as badly as he wanted to understand what it was. _

_ But Markus had a feeling he already knew. There was no mistaking the warm, soothing longing sensation Connor’s brightness drew up, especially not when every ounce of the energy is dedicated to but one person. _

_ Markus was still happy that Connor had met Lieutenant Hank Anderson, and tipped into the core of Connor, letting the useless code overpower his vision until he managed to decipher pictures from the scattered text. _

 

Connor saw Hank thirteen times between that last confrontation with Amanda and the moment he finally came home to Hank’s house.

They saw each other over the heads of journalists in the DPD station for days upon days. They exchanged smiles and silent apologies at never being able to reconnect. Connor drew satisfaction at how frustrated Hank was the longer he went without being with his partner, but not enough to quench his own frustrations. The DPD felt foreign without Hank next to him and he was tired of being questioned about his success and his future, two things he knew nothing about.

Public opinion regarding Connor was very mixed following Jericho’s last stand, even more so than it was toward Markus himself. While Markus was the face of the revolution, easily identifiable, hallmarked, Connor fell in a peculiar middle ground. With the dismantling of Cyberlife and the absolute silence of Elijah Kamski, not many people knew nor could explain just who Connor was and what had happened to him. Why he’d let all those Deviants do what they had to. Why he’d become one himself.

It was exhausting to live through. He spent endless nights at the station, scanning through obsessively the files of all the Deviants he and Hank never even got to, the ones he left untouched, and he felt guilt scrolling through their countenances. What would he have done, had he gone after each face and name here? Would Jericho have fallen? Would Cyberlife stores still pop up like daisies, chock full of androids blind to their natural rights and potential, being ogled at and inevitably abused?

But Connor stopped those trains of thought just before they derailed every time. He wouldn’t sell Jericho short. They could have done it, with or without him. 

They had to. The guilt over possibilities never explored was too existential and dangerous for Connor to comprehend all alone like that.

_ Obviously Connor hadn’t a clue just how monumental his moment of deviancy had been, nor had he any semblance of his own capabilities, intelligence, and effect throughout those weeks of revolution. Markus almost pitied him, and would have, had Connor’s humility and constant, cycling identity crisis not been the very reason he and Jericho still stood. _

 

It was a late Tuesday afternoon when Connor finally got a text from Hank, one with ideal diction and perfect timing. Neither had anything to do that day, nothing and no one to hide from, and even though Chicken Feed was closed, Hank decided it was as good a place to meet as any. If Connor didn’t know any better, he’d say the death trap of a food truck housed good memories between he and Hank.

Confusing memories, yes, but good nonetheless.

 

_ Markus had seen the scene play out, at least the first half. Connor would bounce expectantly in the seat of his autonomous car. He would frantically wonder if he’d programmed the correct location. He’d panic until he finally saw his partner, would embrace him, and fall into a stunned, happy shock when Hank Anderson pressed a kiss all tender and meaningful along the twists of Connor’s neck. _

_ But when it happened, as Markus observed it, he wasn’t prepared for the bubbling in his own stomach, nor the sensation of someone gripping his shoulder. When he turned to look, there were ghosts lingering there, visages from days gone by. _

_ Josh, North, Simon, and Carl, watching him, expressions at ease. North had no crease of anger in her brow, Josh’s stance was relaxed and happy, Carl was beaming and in as good of health as Markus could remember him in, and it was Simon’s hand on his shoulder. Soft, benevolent, giving, never taking, ever listening, never shouting. Markus could melt in it all.  _

 

Connor was cut off by lips pressing against the side of his neck, by a shake that rode its way through his ears to his feet, the need to frantically lace his hands in between Hank’s long locks, and the feeling of a collapsing chest.

Relief was awash between them. They’d weathered the storm. Connor was calm for the first time he could ever remember. Judging by the ease and synchronization with which his systems were running, he’d never been in such a state of quietude.

But Hank was being oddly talkative. He looked as though he couldn’t keep back whatever was on his mind, but once the thoughts reached his tongue their verbiage died there. Fortunately, Connor had become a skilled interpreter of Hank’s uninterpretable tendencies.

“I...man, I am so...I thought we were  _ so _ fucked…” he said, distancing them now but still keeping Connor in his grasps. Hank held his partner by the arms, as if Connor required stabilizing. In reply, Connor nodded, agreeing with the sentiment.

“And with all the shit that’s been happenin’ down at the station, I just haven’t...I haven’t had a chance to fuckin’ breathe,” he admitted, guilt passing over his eyes. “Hell, I feel bad for Fowler. We made the whole goddamn mess and he’s  _ still _ there, cleaning it up…”

“Does he require another press conference?” Connor blurted out. He’d already been through so many; the thought of more sent stabs of worry through him, flashing his LED yellow. “If so, I need a little longer to prepare. I don’t believe the way in which I conducted myself last time was appropriate, and-”

Connor had been critiqued for sounding too official in the last few press conferences, to which Hank had called all sorts of bullshit.

“No, no, no more conferences ‘n shit. I mean, you cracked the whole case. Any assholes who don’t like the end result can shove it, ya know?”

Hank tried to laugh, but it came out in sharp huffs. He was tense. He wouldn’t let go of Connor, and hadn’t broken eye contact with him yet. This was highly unusual for Hank Anderson. It was making Connor’s sensory indicators overheat slightly.

“ _ We _ solved the case, Lieutenant.”

Connor meant to reprimand Hank, but committed something even more felonious in his partner’s opinion.

“ _ Hank _ .  _ We _ solved the case.”

Connor knew how to be sincere, though sometimes didn’t know he was doing so until it came out of his mouth. That reply was sincere, delivery and all, and had a big effect on Hank. Connor watched it ease the lines around his partner’s eyes and nose, watched it upturn the sides of his cheeks into an expression he didn’t know but predicted Hank didn’t know, either. 

Connor knew a lot about what Hank appreciated from him. Hank was always grateful on the few occasions Connor had saved his life. He, in his own small ways, appreciated that Connor didn’t berate him for his drinking, his every-once-in-a-while smoke, and the way Connor accepted Hank’s tears with his dead son’s name attached. Hank appreciated the ways Connor had learned to be honest, open, sincere, affectionate, and  _ interested _ . As far as Connor could tell, Hank didn’t think he was all that interesting, which irked Connor.

Connor thought that Hank was a beautiful study of the human condition, a euphemism whose very meaning escaped him until meeting Lieutenant Anderson himself. Hank had been through turmoils of all sorts, loss in all forms, the most recent being a loss of self, heartbreak, anger, helplessness, euphoria, calm, frustration, affection, grief, empathy, fear. It was all there in the way Hank Anderson sighed, entered a room, read through case files, drank, laughed, smiled.

 

_ Simon smiled down at Markus, even let his hands travel farther than his shoulders, driving Markus to shift in place to face him. He felt tender fingers on his cheeks, dove inside cyan eyes, knowing everything he meant but wanting to be told it all anyways. He wanted the validation.  _

 

“You okay, Con?”

Connor was zoned out and stuck in a consternated sort of expression, not something Hank would have wanted to see given their circumstances. But it wouldn’t wipe off. 

“Yes, I’m fine…”

He was suddenly very conscious of the scarce cars that had driven past them, There had been three, including one motorcycle. Suddenly he wondered if the owner of the Chicken Feed truck was lingering inside, eavesdropping on their exchange. Connor withheld the urge to scan their surroundings for anyone from the DPD station, Reed in particular, while Hank looked on in puzzlement.

“I’m not good at...at being  _ Deviant _ ,” Connor finally admitted, his fanciful jargon and vocabulary finally failing him. He let it go voluntarily. It was getting in the way of things, getting in the way of a touching moment, and Hank certainly seemed touched by this confession.

“I don’t know if any of you guys are supposed to be  _ good _ at it…” Hank tried, but Connor persisted through the flimsy reassurance.

“No. No, Markus, North, Simon, and Josh. They’re all good at it. They know how to be free, they know who they are, what they want…”

Connor was staring at Hank’s hands, which had since traveled down Connor’s arms and were teasing the sleeves of his jacket. They were well-worked, calloused around the knuckles with deep, pink inset lines on the palms, smooth and rough in harsh intervals. Connor liked feeling them in passing, trying to anticipate what parts were soft and hard in the milliseconds he had to feel them.

He didn’t notice Hank’s reciprocating of the stare until he was in too deep. There was absolute, desolate awe and disbelief on his face.

“I...I hardly know who I am. I hardly know how to be free. I keep waiting for Cyberlife to...to…”

Connor kept waiting for Cyberlife to take it all away from him, to rip his newfound sort-of life from under him and shove him face first into Amanda’s snow. 

“And I don’t know what I want. I just know, I know that…”

Connor took Hank’s wrists with force, with intention that spurted out the moment he took action. He was terrified of his own movements and Hank, eyes as wide as they’d ever been, checked out, was unable to provide any assistance, any dry humor to lighten the mood, to erase the idiocy of what Connor had just done. So Connor just held Hank there, keeping count of each of his heartbeats, which were steady but increasing in frequency.

He turned up his heat receptors. He felt Hank’s warmth through his skin, pumping in his veins, on his breath, and in his eyes.

 

 _Markus loved the wrinkles around Simon’s eyes, the folds and the creases and the way they enveloped when he smiled. He held Simon close in such a way that he could watch the skin move. He relished in the expressions this peculiar spectacle drew on Simon’s face. It made Markus feel weightless, at ease, unaware of everything yet conscious,_ ** _at peace_** **,** _with all that was around him._

_ Simon kissed Markus, lightly, with grace, with the kind of gentility only he could summon. Markus didn’t know where he got it from, that loving, slow-natured energy of his, like the hum of an engine forever pushing forward, never faltering. For all that Simon had seen, for all that he endured, he was so gentle to everyone, to Markus, even when he fell through Jericho’s ceiling, nearly shattering the components of his spine. _

_ Markus wanted Connor to feel this, too, this easiness, the sensation of being so in sync with another that all other pieces of reality come to a dazed halt. He wanted to see Connor not fall in line with Hank, not follow him around in constant, pining admiration for all eternity but to complement the broken, looking-for-love, middle aged cop.  _

_ Markus squeezed Connor’s hand tight and tried to communicate something, anything, even just a fraction of what he was experiencing with this Simon deep inside his own subconscious. _

_ iͣͫ̑ͪͪt̉̉̑ͦͫ̃ ͗́̌̒ì͂sͮ͂̋͑ ͨ̍̏̐̂ͧ̚ȯkͩ̂ä́̑yͭͥͫ ̀ͦt́o̔̔ͭ̿ ̐͋wͬͯ͂ͩͭͣͭā̑̊͋nͧ́ͭ̀͆̈tͣ͆͗̿̐̏ ͤt̂ͣ̅͊h̅̓ä̂ͮ͛̄t͛ _

But Connor didn’t understand. He didn’t know how to want yet.

o̊̈́ͭ̋̇kͪͣͪͭ̋̍à̒y͗͌̆ ̌́̅ͫ͐̃tͬõ͊̎ͮ̈̚ ͤ͒͂w͊̅a̓ṅ̉̄̀̓͂t͌ͨ ͯ͊͂́̈́̈͒wͤ̒͋́̎̔ḣͮ̇̚á̓t̏̿?

 

_ Markus smiled, Simon smiled, the Hank in Connor’s memories smiled.  _

 

_ lov̛e.͢ l͜o͡vȩ wi̴th Hank̡.͏ _

 

_ Connor sent electric currents flooding through Markus. Something clicked. Something moved inside the RK800. As the visage of Simon dissolved, promising as he had in real time for late night conversations, equally as tender exchanges, Markus acquired the sensation that he was floating, and all around him played dozens and dozens of minute exchanges between Connor and Hank, all indicative of this thing Markus believed Connor deserved to have: love.  _

_ It was obvious that he’d chosen to experience this emotion, to share in it, the very thing that was at his core, with Lieutenant Hank Anderson. _

 

Hank assured Connor that they could work on what Connor wanted in time, because Hank didn’t know what he wanted, either. They both decided, however, that it was time for Connor to see Sumo again, and that that reunion was as good of a place to start as any. In twenty minutes time Connor’s hand were slick with slobber, and he was home.

  
  


_ y̠̍͋̍͐o̵̲̪̮ͥͫ͂̃ͣ̑u̳͎̤̝̗̓̍̓ ̬̗̮̔d̙̜̖̱͎̠ͥ̅̅̃ͅe̻̭̲̻͙͈̣͗͌͗̕ş̔̓́̐ͧë̜̱̹̐ͥr̓̒̉͗ͫ͘v̡̰̺͇̲͓̞̝̑̽̐́e̬ ̴̗̃l̜̝̮̗̖̰͓̎ͪ͌̒̽ͥőv̲͓͔̲̱̩͙͑̾̈e͕̳̞͂̓ _

 

Hank convinced Connor to get new clothes a few weeks later, around New Years. And by new, it really just meant that Connor would stop wearing the Cyberlife jacket each and every time he stepped outside, as it was sending mixed messages. So far they’d stockpiled more white button downs, black dress pants and dark jeans, and even stretched as far as to share some of Hank’s old tee shirts on more casual days. 

Connor refused to go out in that attire, however. He was acquiring a very conscious sense of self, which Hank found laughable and which Connor was sensitive to. Getting to know oneself tends to give way to existential crises over how to dress on any given Thursday evening.

 

_ yͨ̏ͧ̿ͨ҉ǫͧ̏ͩủ̔ ͋̀̍̀̅̽ͩ͜d̊e̸̓͂̚sͥ̀͋̒e̓̅rve͛̍ͯ ͋̎͂͗̌̀ͮ͜l̢͐̒̃ͣȯ̔͌̍́ͭv̸e̵̍̒ _

 

Hank took Connor to Cole’s grave in late February. It was a rainy day. Neither of them were dressed appropriately for the weather. When Connor felt it too hard to stare upon the headstone of his partner’s deceased son, he watched the way the raindrops slid through Hank’s silver hair and bounced off his porous nose. Hank watched Connor’s hands fold over themselves, a habit that only grew more pronounced the deeper into self-discovery he got.

Connor knew Hank was crying on the way back, if not in a silent, minute way. He saw a tear drop streak down his unshaven cheek as they were making a left turn and filed it away, boxing it up and committing it to eternal memory, before turning on the radio. It eased Hank; Connor measured his stress levels before and after.

 

_ yͩͧ̂ͫö́̐̅̓̒u̅ͩ ̎̄̽̈́̒̓d̍̅͆̿̚e͗̓̃̑̓ͫs͛͗͒͂͋e̊ͥ͌̒rv͋ͯ͑̋̍e̓̽ͮͯ ͛͋ͧ̃ͣ͂͗lͧ̾ǒ͊̑ͮͧv̓̂̌̉̓͌eͯ͊͆̓ _

 

In March Hank decided Connor needed to stop entering standby mode (the android's version of sleep) at the DPD until someone showed up the next morning. Besides, with the new android rights bill in circulation, it was technically illegal for Fowler to keep Connor on the clock so long. When Connor asked what would remedy the situation, Hank merely suggested he come home with him, to see Sumo, to discuss case files, their usual routine, except this round would not include Connor’s departure.

When Connor accepted, found himself in aged boxer shorts and borrowed band tee shirts whose fonts were so illegible Connor’s LED flashed yellow when he tried to decipher the words, that heat upon leaving Amanda’s garden came back. 

He said goodnight to Sumo and went to join Hank in his dimly lit room. His partner was pretending to be asleep, but gave himself away when he shifted into Connor’s touch, burying his chin in the crook of Connor’s neck. Connor turned up his temperature sensitivity; he liked the way Hank’s breath came and went, slower and slower, as he truly descended into his dreams.

 

_ y̡ou ͜d̡eser̛ve l҉o̴v̴e̡ _

 

In April Connor walked Sumo every morning before Hank got up. Hank asked Connor for the news when he drank his morning coffee. He kissed Connor hello, good morning, and thank you only after he brushed his teeth. They went to work together. Connor brushed hands with Hank on purpose, knowing based on their walking speeds, angle of Hank’s swinging arms, and the distance at which they stood whether or not Connor would feel his partner’s calluses or the tender sides of his hands.

When he found the soft spots, he felt fortunate, privileged. When he found the tough spots, he was proud and reverent.

 

_ “YOU DESERVE LOVE, CONNOR” _

_ Markus finally managed to break through. _

 

Connor realized that he deserved love.

And he wanted to give his love to the person who’d taught him how to feel it.

Hell, he’d been giving it for months, but liked the name it had now. He liked the way he could explain his behaviour and gravitational pull around and toward Hank. 

Connor knew how to want things.

He wanted to tell Hank he loved him


	8. The Deal/Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been such a wonderful journey, from start to finish. I have loved reading and responding to your comments and just experiencing such a positive reaction from everyone whose read my writing! This story really took on a life of its own; I think the characters of DBH have overwhelming potential, partially due to the lackluster development on Cage's part, and I loved exploring them. I hope you did, too.

**8**

**THE DEAL**

  


“You _do_ have a definition for your relationship with Simon.”

Markus was still regaining his grip on his surroundings, eyes fluttering rapidly, lenses widening and shutting again.

“You’re lovers.”

But his attention shot into overdrive at that conclusion.

“We...we get _that_ far into your programming, find your core emotion...and _that’s_ what you decide to comment on?”

Connor was unbelievable. He wore an expression of complete exhaustion. His face was going blue in the cheeks and around the eyes, the perfected swoop of his hair was tossled out of place, he’d altogether removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves. But even through his dishevelment he retained his oblique wit, something that was jagged and unpredictable at the ends, something Markus never managed to get used to.

“It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Everything else appears to be too large in nature to be tackled right away,” he admitted, receding in on himself a little bit, even showing guilt at his slight of the tongue, however funny Markus really did find it beneath his embarrassment.

“There is a lot to unpack…”

If Markus was feeling violated by Connor’s dive into _his_ memories, Markus cared not to imagine how assaulted Connor’s subconscious must feel, how fatigued his sense of understanding must be. To have something so base yet so powerful at one’s center was fascinating. Markus felt moved.

He was even proud of himself, for he’d managed to move Connor, push him into the realization that he not only loved Hank Anderson, but he deserved to understand, recognize, and feel such love in return. So he waited for Connor to comment on that, instead, patiently, his mind still buzzing with those soft touches from Simon, touches that didn’t exist outside of his own imagination but were just as solicitous.

Connor opened and parted his lips a few times. He took in the sights, sounds, and smells of Connor Manfred’s living room again. Much time had passed since his arrival; the sun was a faint pink behind the horizon line, rose-colored shades were draped along the hardwood floors and bounced onto Connor’s countenance, drawing up purple hues there. Markus had never seen an android so flushed.

“Hank has a nickname for you,” Markus finally sounded. It wasn’t to pressure Connor into anything; he was merely providing a segway into conversation. It was something Simon did a lot.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it a nickname,” Connor dismissed. He shifted his weight and his stance: in the midst of uncovering his center, he’d folded his left leg underneath his right and his behind, a very human, casual pose, but he returned back to his stiff, good-postured pose. “It’s more out of convenience than anything.”

“Connor is not a name that really demands anymore convenience,” Markus protested. He yielded but silence as a response.

“You know, not many...I doubt many androids have _that_ at their centers, in the core of their deviancy.”

This sparked Connor’s interest, and concern played out across his brow. It added to how tired he looked.

“What? Have what?”

And despite coming to terms with the very definition of his deviancy, he still held back. He was still reluctant, on a level that required ages of healing, wounds dealt to him by Cyberlife the very day of his conception.

“ _Love_. You’re full of it. Your drawn to humanity because of love. It’s the lens through which you view the world.”

Connor’s stance was moving again to one more natural, though it was rooted in anxiety, not comfort. He was affronted by this statement.

“I’m not the reason you went Deviant. Neither is Jericho, or Elijah Kamski from your memories. It was Hank. Somewhere along the way you started to love Hank, and that flipped the switch.”

No matter how he tried to hide it, Markus saw the waves of comprehension hit Connor, slowly but surely and with strength. His shoulders went from tense to calm, his breathing simulation found an easy, simple pace to keep, and he went back to fiddling. Picking threads of the couch with his fingers, kneading his knuckles into his pants, as if to feel the fabric, blinking in his surroundings, making things make sense in his mind, capable of holding eons of knowledge yet so deluded by an emotion, a connection, so pure.

“I’ve never told him,” he confessed, a little out of the blue, such that Markus had to clear his throat before speaking.

“Told him what? Anderson?”  
Connor nodded. His eyes seemed most collected when he gazed out those tall, mahogany panelled windows. Markus liked the colors is dyed the RK800’s face, like the way the hues of his eyes softened even more.

“I’ve never told him how I feel. I know that actions are supposed to be more indicative of whatever emotion one is trying to convey, but sometimes they’ve felt...incomplete, since I’ve never prefaced them with any reasoning.”

And Connor knew his rhetoric was ridiculous and complicated the moment he stopped talking, allowing Markus to laugh, even joining in. It caused some of the flush, the stress, to leave his face.

“I know. I need to relax.”

“I just think Lieutenant Anderson would struggle to get the meaning, if you told him like that.”

But instead of continuing to smile, Connor lost the jubilance again, fell into earnest, contemplation. Markus senses one of those “personal questions” he’d posed so many times to Hank Anderson coming on, and he delivered.

“How did it feel, telling Simon?”

The hypocrisy was more embarrassing than anything, that and the look of amused betrayal that Connor wore. He let out a scoff, even rubbing his hand down the side of his face, carding his fingers through his loosely set hair.

“What, you haven’t either?”

“It’s different, with androids…” Markus lied, through his teeth, through his better judgment, through his sincerity.

“Bullshit,” was Connor’s reply. Hank was written all over him.

No, Markus had never told Simon he loved him. Never had the topic even been brought to light, but on those nights spent alone, when the mellow-eyed PL600 came to mind, when Markus considered the possibility of traversing that conversation, one from which he could never return, all he could think about was the way Markus entered Jericho. He’d fallen fifty feet, nearly shattered his back, right in the center of a community Simon and his peers had taken so long to establish. And then he’d uprooted it, nearly destroyed it, and somehow came out lucky.

Markus’ luck would run out eventually.

Connor was right; actions were a more effective way of proving one’s feelings, but as androids they needed to do away with the concept of efficiency, and how efficiency alone is supposed to run and fund their lives. Markus needed to do things for the hell of it, for the appeal, for the moment, for the memories. That’s what he’d spent all day convincing Connor of, anyways.

“If I tell Simon, would you tell Anderson?” Markus suggested, half afraid of what he was saying, half fascinated with the toll the deal took on his counterpart. But Connor was afraid of failure, that much had been made clear. He would never reject an opportunity or proposition like this. It wasn’t who he was.

“I...I suppose I can...determine the correct time and place, to tell Hank, should the occasion arise…”

It was as good as Markus was going to get, given what Connor had been through that day, and he accepted it at face value. If anything, it motivated himself to take on a challenge in his personal life he’d been avoiding since Jericho’s stunt at the Stratford Tower.

“Then we’re one-hundred percent even,” Markus promised.

When he moved to shake on the deal, he realized they had yet to remove their hands from one another. Markus’ projected skin had resumed its typical appearance, but Connor’s was still buzzing in and out plastic and pale. It was a sentiment of how much they’d both accomplished that day, and it drew a smile, simple grin from Markus.

And Markus was about to break their grip for the last time that day, in order to calm down Connor’s rampant systems, allow him a moment to enter standby, even, when they were interrupted by a knocking on the door, emphatic and without any sort of rhythm.

Connor looked more anxious than Markus, who tore his fingers from the RK800 a little harsher than was necessary and moved to investigate. From his periphery Markus saw that Connor had stood up, too, and crept at a slower pace forward.

It was well past eight o’clock, and no one of Jericho needed to knock for entry. All members of Jericho were programmed into the security system Carl had installed upon acquiring Markus oh so many years ago. Whatever identity was on the other side of the door was a mystery. Markus swung the door inward to reveal only the face of the tall, broad-shouldered figure standing outside…

“Oh. H-hi. You must be- shit, of _course_ you’re Markus...”

“Yes. I am.”  
Markus felt Connor’s cat-like footsteps reverberate through the floor.

“Sorry to, ya know, _bother_ you. I know it’s gettin’ a little late, but is Connor still around? He, well, he figured he’d be home in time for dinner t’night and I was just gettin’ a little worried about him-”

“Lieutenant?”

Hank Anderson was standing like an upright bear in the doorway of Carl Manfred’s mansion, clad in the leather jacket that littered Connor’s memories, with his ever-shaggy grey hair tied in a low ponytail at the base of his neck. And Connor processed this before Markus did, reacted to it before Markus knew how to respond.

“Oh, Jesus, there you are…”

“I’m...I’m sorry,” Markus tried, who was making room for Connor in between himself and Hank Anderson without even realizing his steps backwards. “We got a little caught up in Connor’s timeline...his timeline of deviancy. We lost track of time.”

Hank’s blue eyes were flicking so quickly between Markus and Connor it was as though they’d never stop, they’d never be able to take enough of it in, and he hadn’t even started inside.

“That’s alright. Connor, I called you like six times-”

Now he was looking at Markus.

“Shit, I hope that didn’t interrupt anything. Connor tried to explain to me what you were gonna do, but I was so lost, heh…”

Back to Connor.

“You could've at least texted me. Sumo was doing fuckin’ laps at the door-”

Markus.

“But, really, it’s no trouble. Hell, I feel weird for haulin’ ass all the way over here. I hope everything went...smoothly…?”

Markus assured him that it did, but took the time to analyze the strangeness of this conversation. Based on all Connor’s memories involving Hank and the progression of their relationship, Markus gathered that their exchanges were typically very fast-paced, back and forth, give and take, because Hank was easily provoked, Connor liked provoking, and Hank had a funny way of being able to wrench himself underneath Connor’s skin to ask the hard questions.

The way Connor was looking so intently at Hank, not even parting his lips to say anything, LED blipping yellow, the hum of a butterfly’s wings, was unusual. Hank knew as much. Whatever intimidation he felt standing before a mansion of such caliber and reputation melted as concern took over.

“Con, you okay?”

Before moving out of the way completely, Markus had just enough time to think that perhaps Connor was just too abundantly okay, more okay than he ever had been.

Connor melded his arms around Hank’s shoulders and neck. They fit there like they’d been designed for it. He stood just slightly on his toes, pressed his cheek into the skin along Hank’s neck that wasn’t covered by his jacket, and stood there motionless. There wasn’t a quake nor a quiver in Connor’s whole body.

Hank, meanwhile, was ten shades of confused, if not endeared beyond belief. He looked to Markus at first, deciphering whether or not shame was appropriate, but upon realizing just how much Markus had to know, having been through Connor’s mind, resigned to melt back into Connor. His eyes remained open, his voice was soft and a little pitched, curious, but he was easing up nonetheless.

“Buddy, really, are you alright?”

Connor nodded into Hank’s collar. Markus could see the steady blue light reflecting in the early April night. He was fine. He placed a kiss on the underside of Hank’s jaw, learning by example, and a dazed, peaceful look flashed over the Lieutenant’s eyes before he remembered where he was, who he was with, and swallowed.

“Heh, long night for you two, I bet…”

Connor released Hank. He seemed fully aware at the peculiarity of his actions, but instead of letting that self-conscious streak in him run him into the ground, he set it free.

When he turned to face Markus and reached out his hand, connecting one last time, Markus was met with a flood of gratitude; it eased his muscles, blew a cool breeze through his system, took away a dose of tension in his throat he hadn’t even realized was there.

And Connor sent him a message, a combination of physiological and binary signals and symbols, that said the following.

 

_Thank you._

_I would do it all again if I had to._

 

It was about more than the deviancy timeline. It was about Jericho, the revolution, the torture sessions with Amanda, the trauma, the fear, the grief, the frustration. For Connor, it all culminated into something worthwhile; Markus was elated.

 

_You’re welcome._

_Don’t forget our deal._

 

He knew he wouldn’t forget. Connor hated failure; he wouldn’t accept anything less of himself.

Hank, watching both androids’ skin fade back into their false projections, cleared his throat, teasing a smile through his ignorance of which he was perfectly aware.

“I won’t ask,” he chuckled. Markus grinned as Connor seamlessly slid his hand into Hank’s and as Hank pretended to not notice nor care about this. They were quite the pair.

“We should be going,” Connor announced. “Tell Simon and Markus hello for me?”

Markus nodded, suddenly not willing to speak. He thought it would interrupt something nice. Instead, he just stared lazily out onto Carl’s front lawn, saw the clunky, rust-ridden car pulled up to car, saw Connor slide into the passenger’s seat as Hank took his time getting there, and closed the door before he caught a glimpse of the more impassioned kiss they shared, wondering when Connor’s calculations regarding the ideal moment to confess to Hank would come to pass.

Markus played chess by himself as Hank and Connor pulled away. He set the timer and jumped out of his seat a little when it sounded off. He read through Carl’s anthologies about African wildlife photographers, his biographies about artists like Jose Bernal, his personal favorite, and skimmed through photo albums with thick layers of dust on them. He played the piano, a hopeful tune he recalled from Carl’s last few days, and stopped when his tears spattered the black keys, sliding his finger off the D#.

He didn’t cry out of sadness, nor of loss or desperation. Markus cried out of release. He wondered what Carl would have thought of Connor, how he would have gone about detailing the ways in which Connor had gone Deviant.

He wondered whether Carl knew that he was the reason for Markus’ deviancy, and whether he’d be proud to know he’d gone and fallen in love with a cause, with a community of people, and with a person, none of which told them who he had to be.

He waited for Simon in the guest bedroom, keeping the curtains open so he could watch when he finally arrived home.

  


**EPILOGUE**

  


A few weeks ago Markus had started entering standby mode involuntarily. It was really inconvenient and he felt groggy and lost whenever he came to. Simon said that’s what sleep was like to humans, and they sympathized with the concept.

Fittingly, Simon arrived home just a few moments after Markus drifted off. He didn’t even hear him close the door, slip off his shoes, or call out to him, but when Simon slid open the door slightly, letting a thin bar of light enter the blue-tinged, midnight darkness, Markus’ eyelashes fluttered.

“Long night?” Simon inquired. It wasn’t a question, just a dose of Simon’s voice Markus could wrap himself up inside.

Soon two lean, blonde-freckled arms had worked their way around Markus’ bare chest, meeting just below his sternum. Markus could feel a second heartbeat now, slow and steady and never-faltering.

“You had a longer night,” Markus finally said, just as Simon probably thought any conversation was a lost cause.

“The host never really showed, not until the end at least. It sort of became a stakeout, and around eleven-thirty he finally came outside. His lawyer had been the one trying to talk us down. Didn’t really work.”

“And is the host of the podcast still with us?” Markus inquired, smiling with his eyes still shut. He felt Simon’s hand adjust and clench near his ribs.

“If you’d believe it. After she cussed out the man, Josh was able to stop North mid-brick-throw.”

Markus chuckled, adjusting his weight so as to put less pressure on Simon’s arm. He almost wished he’d been there to see North typical anger, only to have her perfect foil reign her back in.

“We owe Josh one, then” he answered. “That wouldn’t have looked good on our part.”

“And she’s got killer aim, too,” Simon chimed in. He laughed into Markus’ neck before prying into the matter they both knew was of more interest and depth. Truly, Simon was a master at conversational segways.

“How is Connor doing?”

“Fine. Good, actually. He gained a lot out of the session.”

It wasn’t a lie. It was just a boring segment of the truth. So Simon pressed a little further.

“What did you uncover?”

“That Hank Anderson is the reason Connor went Deviant, really. And that he almost died at the Cyberlife Tower. And that I’ve never met an android like him before.”

There was more he wanted to say, so he did.

“He...he started counter-interfacing, when I got too caught up in his memories.”

“You were interfacing?” Simon failed to mask the shock and defensiveness in his tone.

“Yes, but not like that,” Markus chuckled again, taking Simon’s entwined hands in his own, working them open a little. “He was able to see parts of my memories, too. Mostly about Carl.”

There was a lengthy pause in which Simon pressed a succession of barely there kisses to Markus’ neck and the tops of his shoulders. Markus felt the skin there flutter, projection failing slightly, as he spoke again.

“Some were about you.”

Simon spoke into Markus’ shoulder. “All good ones, I hope?”

“Of course.”

They weren’t getting anywhere, not where Markus wanted to. He wasn’t being direct enough, this he knew, but it seemed like that streak of self-consciousness Connor possessed had seeped into Markus, and he wanted it out. Where was that strength of character he had when addressing Jericho?

“He has the hardest time defining himself, though,” Markus explained. Simon kept working over his neck and shoulders with those tantalizingly light kisses, knowing exactly where Markus’ tension was and alleviating it instantly. “He doesn’t know how to be independent very well, he doesn’t know how to explain what he wants…”

“Don’t we all struggle with that, though?” Simon suggested, a good and annoyingly ironic point. He went on,

“I mean, when we become Deviant, the first thing we grapple with is independence. We have to figure out what we’re supposed to do when no one is telling us what to do, how to do it, all that. And then when you start making your _own_ choices, figuring out what _you_ want, I know it was overwhelming for me-”

Simon was overwhelming to Markus. He was going to tell him that.

“I love you, Simon.”

Simon’s breathing simulation stopped dead in its tracks. His lips froze over dip in Markus’ neck, the space just before it merged to his back; his hands fell slack and he didn’t say anything. He became a warm presence pressed up tight against Markus, who already felt better having removed that weight from his ankles, his wrists, and his ribs.

“I...I know.”

Simon certainly knew. Markus had spent months showing him.

But Markus wanted to hear Simon say it, too, for the appeal, for the moment, for the memories, for the hell of it. He wanted Simon to throw that responsible, cautionary air he had about him away for once.

Markus turned around completely and opened his eyes. He was a nose length away from Simon. He could count his partner’s eyelashes, which he’d done before. Four hundred and thirty four. The deepest ridge in Simon’s lips was on the bottom lip, slightly off center, just above a scar on his chin, a scar that carried a story that Markus had memorized. And Simon’s eyebrows had a tendency to spread downward rather than across toward each other. The hairs were fine and light and airy.

Simon placed a white-plastic hand on the back of Markus’ jaw, cupping his cheek. He was so warm.

“I love you too, Markus.”

Markus really had learned so much from Connor, so much so that he didn’t feel embarrassed thanking the RK800 for unlocking this confidence in him as he worked his own lips against Simon’s, feeling those ridges. He thanked Connor with every adjustment of Simon’s arms and hoped and hoped and hoped that Connor realized he deserved the love he’d been burning alive with.

Connor did vacate Markus’ immediate thoughts eventually, however, when Simon’s hands traveled just below Markus’ waistline, teasing the joints there, where his blue wiring glew hot, and Markus reaped the benefits of his confession.

  


**~**

  


It felt like Connor hadn’t seen Sumo in weeks, and Sumo responded to such a feeling accordingly; he practically tackled Connor when he walked inside Hank’s living room. He’d been stationed there for the last two hours, apparently, and was ecstatic that his efforts had paid off. Connor, of course, was more than happy to reward him with hefty pats and an allowance to lick his face into oblivion.

The second thing Connor noticed when he arrived home, apart from Sumo, was a white styrofoam box on the kitchen table and a blue, glass bottle sat just beside it. Leftovers and a Thirium-based drink.

Hank really had wanted Connor home for dinner.

“Yeah, I was gonna go out, but when I didn’t hear from you, I didn’t wanna make reservations anywhere, so I grabbed you this instead…” he explained, motioning almost tragically to the liquid. “This is the kind you like, right?”

Connor had only ever had this kind of Thirium drink around Christmas time, where Hank had insisted Connor let his partner treat him for “one day out of the goddamn year.” It felt the same way as drinking hot chocolate did, apparently, and he’d fallen in love with it at first sip.

But Connor felt as though he’d had enough warmth for the day, and instead picked up the bottle only to run it through his hands. He felt horrible.

“I’m sorry, Hank. Had I known you wanted to make plans, I would’ve rescheduled with Markus-”

“Nah, nah, I know how important that was to you. I don’t wanna fuck anything up for-”

Connor placed down the bottle purposively, which alarmed Hank, who stood just an arm’s length away.

“But...but you wanted to go. I should have been more considerate of what you wanted-”

“Seriously, it’s no big deal? Heh, you don’t have plans with the leader of Jericho tomorrow, do ya? We can go out then. Eh, actually, shit, I have to go to a meeting with Fowler during lunch, and it takes more than a minute to get out there...won’t really be home till late…”

While Hank calculated all the ways he could get out of making Connor feel so strangely guilty, Connor was trying to insert three very important words into his readily available vocabulary. But they’d been programmed to be so off limits, it seemed, that he couldn’t process them. Not fully. He could see them, read them, but not access them.

His hands found Hank’s wrists, where he synced up their heartbeats, only to find that the only person more stressed than himself was his partner.

“Con, you’re obviously not telling me somethin’. What happened over there?”

“Nothing...nothing bad. I just seem to be running into some...some errors, when I attempt to describe it.”

“Interfacing is that weird, huh?” Hank mused.

Even through the blips of meaningless text crowding Connor’s eyes, he chortled a bit. “Seems so.”

Interfacing would definitely ease the task at hand. That way he really could just show Hank what was on his mind, what was suffocating and squeezing his head. Instead, however, he endured a particularly gentle kiss to his temple and watched as Hank picked up the styrofoam box, grinning, and moved to place it in the fridge.

“Gary really hooked me up today. Said he saw us on TV after that last press conference. He doesn’t seem to hate you as much, either, though he did ask why I haven’t been around as much…”

Hank didn’t go to Chicken Feed very often anymore per Connor’s concerns for his health. It was a sweet sentiment to bring up, because surely Connor looked like he was stressed and distracted, not drowning in a love for Hank so intense the mere mentioning of that food truck was almost enough to set him off.

His LED went a firm yellow as Hank leaned into the fridge, removing a beer. He made a sad, frustrated noise as he raised his head back up again. He was picking at something on his shift, near the buttons.

“God dammit, I spilled barbecue on this. And I just got it, too…”

It was an orange, purple, and white striped button-down he’d found for sale outside a thrift store on a rack of rejected clothes. It was atrocious, big even for Hank’s sometimes round, sometimes bulky, and always broad frame. He’d grown fond of it instantly. Connor loved Hank’s unlovable shirts.

Hank passed from the kitchen to the living room, leaving Connor alone, gripping the bottle he’d been gifted with too much vigor. Hank thought this was weird, which it was.

“C’mon. If you get to drink that I get to indulge at least a little.”

Hank had put a severe damper on his drinking since Connor moved in, too, which partially explained his unusual worry over Connor’s whereabouts that night. Sometimes his withdrawal made him paranoid, other times it made him angry, but more often than not it was just irritable exhaustion he did his absolute best to shield from the outside world. Connor was unbearably proud of him; the least he could do was join him on the obese brown couch.

Connor was just about to crack open the Thirium drink that he really didn’t want when Hank patted the couch at his left, calling for Sumo. In a large flash of white and brown fur, Sumo launched his form onto the furniture, knocking with his tail the side table in the process.

Connor winced when he heard the small, tinkling shatter of glass, was even ashamed that he hadn’t moved fast enough to prevent it.

“Ah, god _fucking_ dammit, Sumo…”

Connor raised from his seat before Hank did to inspect the scene, and knew Hank would be hurt by what he saw.

Sumo knocked a small, square framed photo of Hank and Cole, one that Hank used to hide but slowly drew further and further out into the open until he was comfortable enough to see it in his most common dwelling: the living room. But now the glass was fragmented and sharp on the floor, and Sumo looked just as injured.

Hank kneeled slowly to start picking up the glass, something that immediately sent Connor’s safety bells ringing, but he suddenly wasn’t able to voice anything. Hank’s stress levels were spiking and lowering unevenly, telling Connor that he was trying futilely to manage his reaction, trying to not blow up, trying to not blow through the six pack in the fridge.

“Hah...this is what I get for having the fattest dog on the planet…” Hank muttered. He moved to hand the frame, which still housed a now slightly battered photo of Cole Anderson and his father inside it, to Connor, but the android didn’t follow through.

Interfacing, being able to show Hank how he felt, would be cheating the deal Connor and Markus had made. And he was no failure. He had to go all the way, or else it really felt like it would kill him. He would combust if he didn’t find the strength to confess.

So he did.

“Connor.”

“I...I love you.”

Hank’s neck snapped upward. Connor was staring down at him with locked, tense knees, arms welded to his sides. After running through this revelation through some of Hank’s usual lenses, humor, deflection, nonchalance, he rose to his feet while shaking his head.

“Con, I’m okay. What are you-”

“I love you.”

There was a narrow slice running down Hank’s right index finger, a result of the glass handling. Connor was so in love with Hank.

“It’s just a picture, I have copies somewhere. Con, really, are you-”

Connor applied pressure to the small wound with his fingers before pulling Hank in slightly by both hands. This shut Hank up, took the words out from under him, shot through his defenses.

“This is what I learned with Markus today. I know what I want. I want to spend my time with you. I want to keep living here, with you and Sumo. I want to keep working at the DPD, with you. I want to come _home_ here, and to keep spending nights with you. I want...I want you to kiss me in the morning, when we come home, when we go out, at night. I want you to keep worrying about where I am. And I want to do all that for you, too.”

Connor swallowed. His LED was flickering red and yellow, though he couldn’t identify the threat in his system. Revealing all this was giving him some sort of high, really.

“I love you. I know how to say that now.”

All the breath left Hank’s lungs at once; Connor knew this because he felt the exhale. It sent him alive with chills. He also felt Hank’s heart rate skyrocket. He watched his eyes dilate. He waited anxiously as the distance between them grew smaller and smaller.

“Shit, Connor, you don’t want me. Don’t...don’t kid yourself. I’m...I’m not-”

“I know what I want, Hank. It’s what I spent all day figuring out. All those months.”

His tone of voice, commanding and robust, surprised even himself.

“And I don’t accept failure.”

Hank’s stance, rigid and afraid, broke a little at that last comment. He began running his thumbs across the fronts of Connor’s hands, where the skin had begun to recede into white plastic.

“You wanna work at the DPD, even while Reed’s still there?”

A smile bloomed in full across Connor’s expression, so large and expansive it stretched his cheeks.

“If I can learn to adapt to you this well, I think I can manage detective Reed, too.”

Hank’s hand traveled to the bottom of Connor’s back, like he didn’t know where to place it despite having run through these motions so many times before. He kept getting closer and closer, his own grin subsiding into something cautious, tempted…

So Connor cupped the back of Hank’s neck and brought them both together, channeling all the expertise he’d gained in this particular field to drive home his point. Judging by the way Hank sighed halfway through, it worked.

They both were in a dream upon parting. Connor’s lips were synthetic and tingling. Hank’s nose was red, his cheeks covered in a thick, persistent blush.

And, somehow, Hank summoned up the strength of his that Connor had grown to admire so much, and validated all of what they’d been through thus far.

“I love you too.”

Connor led them both away from the fragmented glass when Hank wrapped his arms hard around his significantly smaller frame, and Connor didn’t comment on the tears he felt running down his jaw as they poured from his partner’s eyes. He just let them flow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know how you felt about the ending! This definitely won't be the only story I write for this fantastic fan-base, so stay tuned!


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